


Old Love, Old News

by dawnstruck



Series: Second Chances 'verse [4]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Domestic, Gen, Kidfic, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-07 06:13:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7703629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnstruck/pseuds/dawnstruck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edward has gotten knocked over the head more often than he can cares to remember but this is definitely the first time he has woken up ten years into the future and, oh, apparently married to frigging Führer Mustang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Edward I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I have just begun a year abroad in the US, I was sadly unable to contribute anything at all to RoyEd week. So I though that I might just bust out the fourth installment of the Second Chances 'verse, featuring angst and amnesia. Hope you enjoy.

The sun is just peeking past the horizon, the first sliver of morning light sneaking through the gap in the curtains, gentle and unassuming.

It's early, too early by far for any kind of coherent thought, anything but half-lidded eyes and rising bliss, Roy's breath warm and damp against the tendons of his neck as Ed arches, aches, Roy's hand around his cock and slowly working him towards ecstasy.

They haven't even spoken yet, but Roy's mouth moves along his skin, trailing haphazard kisses there, leaving Edward's body torn about which touch he should rather be leaning into, but eventually its that dual pleasure that does him in, and he bucks off the bed, coming all over Roy's hand and his own belly.

When he sinks back onto the mattress, slightly out of breath and vaguely wondering whether it would be acceptable to just go back to sleep now, Roy leans in once more to purr into his ear.

“Good morning,” he says and Ed gives a slow grin.

“It is,” he agrees, clapping his hands to transmute them clean, before rolling over in Roy's arms, “Want me to return the favor?”

Roy sighs, “I'm afraid I'll have have to get ready for work now.”

“Are you sure,” Ed asks, drawing one of his fingers along Roy's pectorals, “I mean if you don't have time now, I could drop by the office later. Counteract all that stress.”

Roy's mouth pulls into a wry smile, caught between temptation and resignation.

“Hawkeye would kill me,” he points out.

“Maybe,” Ed agrees, leveling himself up so he can whisper against Roy's lips, “But it would be worth it.”

In that moment, there is a heavy banging against their fortunately locked door and they both jolt, hearts racing.

“Wake up!” Al yells through the wood, “It's morning! I have to go to school!”

Ed groans, letting himself fall back into the pillows.

“Not for another two hours, Al,” he answers, eyes staring up at the ceiling, begging it for mercy, “So calm down.”

“I'm gonna make breakfast!” Al announces instead and then there is already the sound of him jumping down the stairs, two at a time.

Ed gives another sigh and then rolls out of bed. “I'm gonna go make sure he doesn't break his neck,” he tells Roy, “Or burn down the kitchen.”

“Why is he so excited about school?” Roy rubs a palm over his face, “I was never that excited about school.”

“It's not even the studying,” Ed muses, knowing that brains-wise Al is far ahead of both the other students and the teachers, “He just likes socializing.”

“A travesty,” Roy chuckles, “Actually liking people and wanting to spend time with them.”

“Yeah, don't know who he got that from,” Ed sighs in exaggeration, scrunching his nose up, “He must be adopted.”

It's taken him a while to joke about it like that, to more or less openly acknowledge it, and even then he only really does it in front of Roy and no one else. But this is his life now and it becomes both easier and harder the older Al grows. He's nine years old and too closely resembles the brother Ed once had for Ed to not shut down in sudden grief sometimes.

But for all the undeniable similarities, his son is still an individual and not a carbon copy. Still, some things are a universal constant. Such as Al always trying to spoil cute animals.

“Al,” Ed scolds when he comes upon the scene in the kitchen, “No milk for the cats. That's animal cruelty.”

Al takes a deep, self-righteous breath, “Daddy, just because you don't like milk-”

“They'll get diarrhea and shit all over the carpet again,” Ed reminds him pointedly and Al's face falls.

“... fair enough,” he relents because he must still remember the last incident of that nature.

Ed shakes his head and goes to get some eggs from the fridge.

“Scrambled or fried?” he asks over his shoulder, fumbling with the gas sparker to light the flame and then setting a pan on the stove.

“Scrambled,” Al says and places the bottle of milk onto the counter next to him.

Ed busies himself with making breakfast, listening to Al chatter on about his plans for the day.

“Mister Davenport thinks alchemy will someday become obsolete because of the advancement of other sciences,” Al explains and Ed cannot help but scoff. “Tell Mister Davenport that he's an idiot.”

Al tuts at him with all the bravado of a little robin, “Aunt Winry says it's important to always listen to your teachers.”

“Your aunt Winry always fell asleep in class, so don't you dare believe her anything she says about school.”

“How about we make a compromise,” Roy interferes in that moment as he steps into the kitchen, freshly showered and sharply dressed, “It's a good idea to adhere to authority while still maintaining autonomous thoughts.”

“Your father means one should be a bootlicker on the outside but a secret usurper on the inside,” Ed translates, “Because that's what what worked for him.”

“Father says there was never a usurpation,” Al grins, “Just that Führer Bradley mysteriously disappeared which just so happened to work in favor of a new and improved government.”

“Semantics,” Ed claims and twirls his spatula.

Al goes back to stuffing his face with scrambled eggs and Roy smoothly sidles up with Ed.

“Do you have classes today?” he purrs, “You did promise me a courtesy call after all.”

“Nah,” Ed muses, “Just a short conference and then I'll work in the lab, I think.”

Roy pulls a face, “Can you do that after you visit me in the office?”

Ed stifles a grin at the admission that Roy does want him to drop by for a rendezvous, Hawkeye's objections be damned, and instead puts on a faux scowl, “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Roy looks a little evasive, “Your experiments simply appear a little... volatile sometimes.”

Ed just gives him a look, “Theoretical alchemy is meaningless if you don't move on to experimental alchemy at some point.”

“I know, I know,” Roy says, lifting his hand in placation, “I just wish you wouldn't come home smelling of rotten eggs all the time.”

That, finally, has Ed puffing up his chest. “Okay, first of all, that was one time,” he points out, “Second of all, you're really one to talk, what with that awful aftershave you-”

“It was a present from the Xingese ambassador,” Roy tries to defend himself, “I had to use it or she would have been offended. Do you want me to risk a war about your sensitive nose?”

“I want you to not make me gag whenever I get too close to you.”

“Well, I'm not wearing it now, am I?” Roy asks playfully, pressing himself closer.

Ed just whacks him with a dish towel.

“Behave,” he says and then pushes a laden plate into his hands, “And eat up. You'll need your strength.”

Roy blinks, “For what?”

Ed flicks his gaze along the line of his body, a meaningful tilt to his eyebrows.

“You'll see,” he promises and then turns away to prepare his own breakfast.

 

“You need any more help with that, professor?” Imany asks, though she is already hovering in the doorway, ready to discard her lab coat, so Ed just waves her off.

“Just the boring stuff now,” he tells her, scribbling down his observation of the fluctuating data, “You go ahead and get lunch.”

“Sure thing,” she says and then she's gone, leaving him to puzzle over the contradicting mess in front of him.

The thing is, Ed has been working on this experiment for weeks and it's not exactly going anywhere. The dean is harrowing him about results because otherwise his funding will have to be reduced, and Ed's impatience is getting the better of him.

He just wants it to be easy. In theory, in his head and when written down on paper, it all makes perfect sense. But unsurprisingly, life doesn't exactly always work according to the rules.

In science, when you wanted feasible results that could be recreated, you needed to maintain the same factors, singling out possible disruptions. So maybe Ed just needed to enter a new variable into the equation. If the problem was deeper-rooted, then all of the data should keep fluctuating in accordance to that. Maybe, if he just increased the heat a little...

There is a split second during which Ed manages to think a brief 'oh shit', but it's followed by a burst of sparks and the whole thing already ignites, explodes, knocking him backwards and then knocking him out, blissful darkness and little pain.

 

 

When Ed wakes up his head feels muddled, but not in a painful way which means they must have drugged him up which means they must poked him with needles which means he is in the hospital which means something must have gone wrong.

He doesn't know what precisely has gone wrong but considering his life style it could be anything.

He's propped up in one of those narrow, uncomfortable-as-fuck hospital beds and when he reluctantly blinks his eyes open he is faced with those awful mint-green walls that some harebrained interior designer probably thought was soothing or something. It really isn't.

Neither is the sight of the infusion disappearing in the crook of his left arm. Nor is who appears to be Colonel Mustang sitting by his side.

“Oh,” Mustang says when he notices him stir and there is obvious surprise in his voice, “Oh, you're awake. Are you- I'll call the doctor, don't move, I'll-”

And he's up and by the door before Edward has even really registered Mustang squeezing his flesh hand in a sort of reassuring manner.

Mustang must have hailed down a nurse and then is immediately followed back inside by a stern-looking gray-haired woman whose lab coat swishes as she resolutely closes the door behind herself.

Ed lifts his automail hand to gingerly scratch at his head, feeling the thick gauze there. Head trauma then. Explains why he doesn't remember fuck about what happened.

It does not explain, however, why Mustang looks so visibly relieved or why he is here while Al isn't.

And that has the panic welling up inside of Ed's throat because he does not know what has happened, he doesn't know how he got injured and whether Al might be in trouble as well.

“Al,” he rasps out, his mouth all dry and fuzzy, “Where is Al?”

“He's in school, Edward,” Mustang says in a voice that is all calm, safe for how it seems a little frazzled around the edges, “I'll send someone to pick him up later.”

“School?” Ed echoes, nose crinkling, “What school?”

Mustang opens his mouth but then just keeps it like this, blinking openly. Edward doesn't think he's ever seen him look so out of his depth before and it's a curious sight.

Now that he is looking closely, he can also see that Mustang looks different. His hair is brushed back and he looks older like this, but there is also something else, something Ed can't quite put his finger on.

Before either of them can say anything, though, the doctor lifts her hand in a preemptive silencing motion, giving Ed a keen-eyed look.

“How are you feeling?” she asks him plainly, “Are you in pain?”

“Uh, no,” Ed answers truthfully because they apparently gave him the good stuff, “Head's throbbing a bit.”

“Hm,” she says, glancing down at the clipboard she must have taken from the end of bed, “What do you remember?”

“Uh,” Ed says and thinks for a moment, “Uh, not sure, really. What happened?”

“You blew up your lab,” Mustang cuts in, sounding somewhat exasperated now, “I told you experimental alchemy was dangerous.”

Lab, Ed thinks. He doesn't remember doing any lab work.

Before Mustang can continue, however, the doctor just cuts him off.

“You suffered severe head trauma,” she tells Ed and then gives a bit of a wry smile, “Luckily, you seem to have a thick skull so there was no bone damage. Unfortunately, however, you have experienced some minor brain swelling, the effects of which might be far-reaching.”

She gives him another considering look.

“Can you tell me the name of the current Führer?” she asks at length and Edward grits his teeth.

“King Bradley,” he says, trying to make it sound less like a sneer because he knows even such a little thing might be viewed as treason by those who believe in the government, and he doesn't know where this woman stands.

From his periphery, Edward can see Mustang startle violently.

“Führer President,” the doctor says slowly, “You might want to sit down for this.”

 

“Isolated retrograde amnesia,” Doctor Nelson explains in a blunt straight-forward manner, “You are experiencing heavy memory loss.”

Yeah, Ed had kind of noticed that. Considering that fucking Mustang of all people had apparently made Führer. Which at least explained why his hair was starting to gray and why his uniform was different.

You didn't suddenly go from Colonel to Führer, though. Especially not considering what had been going on before.

But if they are alive, that means... that means Dante and the homunculi must have been taken care of. That means...

Ed darts a nervous look from the doctor over to Mustang. The man had mentioned Alphonse before but nothing about his current state. Had they succeeded in restoring Al's human body?

But he bites his tongue because he certainly can't ask that question in front of Doctor Nelson.

But Mustang just sits, stone-faced, ashen-faced, his back even more rigid than usual.

It's strange, Edward thinks. Apparently he hadn't gotten injured doing field work which implied that he maybe had already left the military. But then why would Mustang be here if not as his commanding officer? Especially if Mustang was Führer now. Hawkeye maybe, or Havoc. Certainly not Mustang.

Ed tries to hold on to that feeble train of thought because thinking about all of the other stuff, all the other questions he has will make him hyperventilate before he has even tried to word any of them.

Unfortunately, Doctor Nelson does it before him.

“Mister... Elric,” she says with a weird little pause as though she had to remind herself of his name just there, “How old do you remember being?”

Ed stills, thinks for a moment. He remembers this, he does. Remembers spending his birthday in a hospital room and Winry leaving for Elysia's party, even if everything around that is rather fuzzy.

“Sixteen,” he replies confidently, “I remember being sixteen.”

Instead of looking at Doctor Nelson, however, his gaze is inevitably drawn towards Mustang whose eyes have dropped shut, hand coming up to press over his mouth.

Wow. Ed knows that Mustang wasn't a _total_ bastard, but that the guy would be this affected kinda throws him.

“Mister Elric,” Doctor Nelson says, her lips pinched, “I am sorry to tell you this, but it seems that you have forgotten the past nine years.”

“Oh,” Ed says numbly. Part of him wants to laugh, call them out on their ridiculous joke. Part of him wants to rail and smash something delicate. So maybe it's the sedatives, maybe it's the shock but he can't bring himself to do anything more than look down at the hands in his lap.

He still has his automail, he notes vaguely. Did they attempt human transmutation again? Did they fail? He's never much cared about getting his limbs back, not when compared to the entirety of Al's body. He needs to know. Their mission had been his sole focal point for such a long time and he feels that if he knows then everything will start making sense again. But he can't, not outright, not here.

“Col-” he begins but then stops himself, knowing the rank is no longer appropriate at all but also unable to make himself utter the word Führer. “Mustang,” he says finally, thinking it to be neutral enough but the man still flinches vaguely. Geez, when had the bastard become so easy to see through? Shouldn't his poker face have improved in accordance to his amount of power?  
“Is Al,” Ed asks, nervously wetting his lips, “Is Al alright?”

Mustang closes his eyes for a very long moment but when he opens them again he is not looking at Edward.

“Yes,” he says flatly, “Yes, he is.”

There's something, though. Some painful truth the bastard is not mentioning and it could be anything, literally anything because the Gate was just like that, so terribly random in its caprice.

Yes, Al is human once more but he cannot walk. Yes, you got back his body but he is in a coma. Yes, you did it but you still fucked up.

“Can I see him?” he asks, fingers clenching in his starched white blanket.

“Maybe we should leave this for later,” Doctor Nelson says, tapping her fingers against the clip board, “It's best to ease you back into what has happened during the time you forgot.”

“Is this,” Mustang begins, sounding strangely faint before he clears his throat, “Is his condition curable?”

“Difficult to tell this early on,” Doctor Nelson admits, “The memory loss might prove to be short-term or permanent. In either case, the best approach would be to try and jog the patient's memory, see whether they remember something after all, even just little things. However, if the amnesia affects such a long period, complete submersion might prove to be too jarring.”

“Do I have to stay here?” Ed asks. He doesn't feel bad, apart from the subtle throbbing throughout his head, but he's definitely had worse. Staying at the hospital might be the safer bet, the comforting one. But he cannot sit here and wait, all the while knowing that nothing is as it was before.

Doctor Nelson sighs.

“I'll need to run some more tests, now that you're awake,” she informs him, “Considering the swelling has gone down, there's no reason to keep you here, as long as you take it easy.”

“I think I'll manage,” Ed says because it seems that he won't have to run off and fight homunculi at any given moment. He glances over at Mustang.

“So, can you maybe take me to wherever I'm supposed to live or something?” he asks and watches closely. By now, however, Mustang's face has become so waxen that Ed cannot read much of an expression off of it.

“Of course,” Mustang says, fluidly standing up and smoothing down the front of his uniform, “I best go and make some calls. Please take your time.”

I've already lost nine years, Ed thinks and then lets Doctor Nelson shine bright lights into his eyes.

 

When he is declared healthy enough that sitting around won't do much good, Doctor Nelson directs him to his personal belongings that have been placed by the window sill. There's a bag of fresh clothes inside that fit Ed perfectly, slacks and a comfortable sweater and a pair of shiny leather shoes. Someone must have brought that here for him, considering that this supposed explosion at the lab probably ruined whatever he was wearing at that time.

Now that he is moving around he notices a couple of things about himself.

For one, he is taller. Not by much, not a giant by any means, but definitely at a height he always hoped for. Also, his automail is different, much lighter than before, but he can tell that it is still Winry's handiwork.

He catches his reflection in the mirror above the sink and just stares at this face that is his and at the same time not. His chin is more angular, his cheekbones sharper, especially pronounced with his hair tied back and the bandages still wound around his temples. He's undeniably an adult and something about that is utterly mind-boggling.

Nine years. He must be twenty-five then. Somehow, he'd never thought that far ahead. And, if he's being honest with himself, he'd never really expected to live that long.

But he's got to focus on the bright sides now. Mustang had mentioned something about Al being in school. That probably meant Al was a teacher now. Ed smiles. Yeah, he could really see that for Al, surrounded by cute kids and carrying knowledge into the world. Ed, on the other hand, had obviously chosen a more isolated type of work, something that titillated his brain instead of challenging his social skills. No surprise there.

Finally, and more out of habit than anything else, Ed finds himself reaching into his left pocket, his fingertips touching cold metal.

It's not his silver pocket watch, though, so that at least might answer his question about his leaving the ranks. Instead he finds himself pulling out two rings, one gold and another made of silver, decorated with a tiny ruby.

Oh fuck, Ed thinks. He's married. He's fucking married, he must be because he doesn't _do_ jewelry, and he must still be pretty high on drugs considering that he feels merely vaguely confused instead of freaked the fuck out like never before.

With a deep breath and a dry-throated swallow, he tilts the rings a little to read the engravings. The gold one has nothing but a tiny-ass array scratched into it, but the other has some numbers and letters.

 _Don't forget 3._ _Oct 23_ , it reads in elegant cursive and, wow, when did he get so sappy as to set his wedding date on that day?

At least is was only about two years ago which calms him a tiny bit, but on the other hand it doesn't mention who the hell he is married to. Is it someone he knows, like... like Winry or Shezka? Or is a complete stranger? And which scenario would be better?

Probably someone he knows, he decides after a moment of panic. Yeah, that would be less weird.

He trembles a bit as he stuffs the rings back into his pocket, deep enough that he won't lose them. It would feel wrong, though, to put them on. Like a promise of eternity to someone he doesn't really know.

So steeling himself, he turns on his heel and marches out of his hospital room – only to find Mustang waiting for him.

He looks prim and pretentious, his hands folded behind his back, like standing to attention in front of a superior, only that he is the Führer now, so it only makes him appear regal instead, and Ed finds himself reluctantly impressed.

He had sometimes entertained the thought of what Amestris would be like if Mustang really made it, but anything would have been better than what Bradley did. And now, like this, Ed still has no clue what the nation has come to. But if there is Mustang whom he has known as an insufferable bastard but also as a loyal companion, a worthy fighter, a brilliant alchemist, an upstanding man and – yes. Amsteris is probably pretty well off at the moment.

“Ready to leave?” Ed asks, trying to not let his short burst of admiration show.

Mustang gives a curt nod and then he is marching down the hallway, obviously expecting Ed to follow.

“I already checked you out,” he announces, not looking back, “And made an appointment for your follow-up examination.”

Ed blinks, “You can do that?” Then again, maybe he shouldn't be surprised. This was the Führer after all. If he told a nurse he wanted someone checked out she probably wouldn't think to object. Ed would make a barbed remark about abuse of power and all that, but he's just glad to get out of the hospital as quickly as possible.

In the foyer, they find Havoc waiting for them. A glance at his uniform reveals that he is a Brigadier General now, so it seems odd that was called here for what is obviously little but a chauffeur job. In his hands he is holding a folded umbrella, clicking its pointed tip against the floor in a nervous beat.

“Hey, boss,” Havoc greets when he catches sight of Ed, cigarette caught around a lopsided grin, and there is a little comfort in that, in the knowledge that some things never change.

“Hey,” Edward returns but can't even bring himself to lift his hand in a wave, and he can tell that Havoc's unaffected tone is nothing but a facade meant to comfort him.

“Car's parked at the back entrance,” Havoc informs Mustang, “'m afraid they caught wind of that, though.”

Ed frowns, “Who did?”

“Journalists,” Havoc says with an apologetic shrug and then opens the umbrella, “I'll try to hold them off a little.”

“What?” Ed says, even as Mustang gently pushes him forward and out the door.

“Don't tell them anything,” Mustang warns him quietly, “Just keep your head down. I'll handle it.”

“What?” Ed repeats, but then they are outside and swarmed by people who flash cameras and throw questions at them.

“Führer President!” the cacophony of voices engulfs them like a torrent, raining down on them from all sides, even as Havoc tries to put up a shield with the umbrella, and Ed hadn't meant to take Mustang's order but he finds his eyes glued to his feet anyway, unwilling to join into this madness when his world has already descended into chaos.

“Is it true that the explosion at the university was a terrorist attack?”

He chances a quick glance up and there, beyond the vultures' heads, a black car is parked at the side of the road, a welcome sanctuary, just meters and yet miles away.

“How many people were injured?”

Mustang, though. Mustang is keeping close to Ed, one hand on his shoulder, the other held in front of them to push away anyone who dares to get too close.

“No questions,” Mustang says, his tone brokering no argument, and Edward has seen him be all authoritative and shit, but this is on a whole new level.

Then, very suddenly, very unexpectedly, everything tilts.

“Führer Elric-Mustang!”

Edward can't breathe. The car is in front of them, Havoc opening the door, Mustang pushing Ed inside and then following after him, pulling the door shut, and then the voices are muted, but now the noise is inside of Ed's head, and he. Can't. Breathe.

The fact that Mustang was at the hospital instead of Al who should be his next of kin. That he could just check him out like that. His strong reaction to Ed's diagnosis. The rings with alchemical arrays.

And indeed, there on Mustangs hand, one gold ring and a silver one with a sapphire embedded in it, matching the ones that Edward had found among his belongings. Suddenly, everything makes sense, and at the same time it doesn't.

Edward has gotten knocked over the head more often than he cares to remember but this is definitely the first time he has woken up ten years into the future and, oh, apparently married to frigging Führer Mustang.

“You bastard,” he rails, incapable of anything else, and his body feels hollowed out as he lifts his hands and begins beating them against Mustang, his shoulders, his chest. “You bastard, what did you do, what did you do to me, what-”

“Edward,” Mustang says and he sounds broken, and he damn well should, Ed is trying to break him, break him into pieces and see whether this fucking jigsaw puzzle actually fits together somehow. And Mustang doesn't fight back, neither with fists or with words, just this desolate look like he is just as lost as Ed is, even though he cannot possibly be.

So eventually it is Havoc who gets through to him, twisting around on the driver's seat.

“Boss,” he says, the drawl of his dialect strangely soothing and familiar this far from home, “Ya gotta breathe.”

And Ed does, realizing that, yeah, he hadn't done that in a while, and the oxygen makes things a little bit clearer again, a little calmer, and when Havoc kicks up the engine and angles the car away from the curb Ed slumps against the window, the tinted glass cool against his forehead and luckily he cannot see Mustang's reflection in it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just can't leave them alone, can I?


	2. Edward II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me just say: Wow wow wow! I was not expecting to see so many of again and some others joining us for the first time. I'mso happy this series still keeps you interested because in turn you guys keep me going as well.  
> This chapter is by far the longest of this installment, but I don't yet know how many chapters there will be in total. Probably about six, but we shall see.

It's not a particularly long drive, not nearly long enough for Ed to come to terms with everything, but when Havoc parks the car in a fancy suburban neighborhood, Ed is at least able to trudge up some snark from a place within him that isn't completely numb.

“Not the mansion, huh?” he asks wryly, though it's still a big-ass house standing there in front of them.

“No, you-,” Mustang begins, clearing his throat, “You wanted to retain as much normalcy as possible.”

“Pff,” Ed huffs because there is nothing even remotely normal about him allegedly having married the Führer of Amestris.

Without waiting for Mustang to beckon him, he goes to stalk up the garden path, hearing how Mustang is dismissing Havoc for now. The front-yard is picturesque, a neat lawn and trimmed boxwood, flowerbeds with hydrangeas and geraniums, clearly the work of a skilled gardener, because the Führer's got a reputation to uphold.

He reaches the front door, tries to remember whether there were any keys among his belongings, hears Mustang's footsteps drawing closer, and just cannot wait for that man to unlock the door and invite him into what he claims is their shared home.

So Edward claps his hands and presses them to the doorknob, listening for the tell-tale click of the lock surrendering to his alchemy, and then he just pushes inside.

The first thing he sees is two little furballs running towards him down the hallway, one calico and one creamy red.

“Cats?” he asks and actually cannot help but smile as they press up to his legs, before he chances a glance up at Mustang, “I thought you were more of a dog person.”

The man, however, keeps his eyes on the two pets, “They were your idea, actually.”

“Seriously?” Ed blinks, bemused, “Did Al talk me into that?”  
This time, Mustang takes even longer to answer.

“In a manner of speaking,” is what he finally says and then he moves down the hallway with measured strides. He does not take off his coat or his shoes, Ed notes, probably reluctant to divest himself of the imagined protection his uniform offers him. And that thought, for some reason, makes Ed realize that – if they really are married – this whole disaster must be rather awful for Mustang as well.

“Hey,” he calls out, before he can think better of it, making Mustang come to a halt, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Want to give me a tour of the house?” Ed asks, because Doctor Nelson had said that familiar

things might help him remember.

Mustang replies with a muted smile.

“Gladly,” he says and Ed feels oddly relieved.

 

The house really is big, bigger than even the outside lets you guess at. There's a garden, a patio, a solarium, a living-room, a guest room, a dining room, and that is just the lower level. Everything is mind-numbingly tasteful, from the furniture to the wall paint, but there are personal touches in between that Ed cannot help but appreciate, books strewn around, cat fur in the corners.

From the corner of his eye, he catches sight of something he is sure must be a wedding photo of him and Mustang, and from that point on he forces himself to not look at any of the other picture frames covering the walls or the paper clippings on the refrigerator.

“It's probably too naïve to hope that seeing our kitchen has magically restored your memory,” Mustang quips and, despite himself, a small laugh escapes Ed.

“No,” he admits, “I wouldn't mind a snack, though.”

He's not exactly hungry, but he needs something to occupy his nervous hands with.

“Of course,” Mustang agrees, already moving over to the fridge, “Please have a seat.”

In the following minutes, Ed is treated to the rather odd sight of Roy Mustang making a sandwich. The man's hands move around steadily, reaching for cupboards and cabinets with a certainty that belies the fact that he must have lived here for a while and knows his way around. His back is still too rigid for him to really appear at ease, though, and they are both desperately trying to act like the silence between them is a comfortable one.

“Maybe none of this is real,” Ed cannot help but muse aloud when it all gets a little too much, “Maybe it's all just a dream.”

He narrowly avoids saying 'nightmare', but Mustang's lips are still pursed when he turns around an presents Edward with a turkey club.

“I wish it were,” Mustang says, probably more grimly than intended, and Ed swallows thickly before taking a hearty bite out of the sandwich.

The taste of mayonnaise hits his tongue and almost on instinct he pulls a face.

“Ugh,” he says, “I don't like mayonnaise.”

But even as he says it he realizes that it's not quite true, that his taste buds do not rebel at the flavor like they used to.

“You do, actually,” Mustang offers a small smile, reminiscent of his trademark smirk, “Changed your mind about that a while ago.”  
“Huh,” Ed hums and keeps chewing thoughtfully.

He finishes the meal more quickly than he would like and then he can only brush the crumbs from his fingers.

“Shall we go upstairs?” Mustang offers and, after steeling himself once more, Ed gives a curt nod.

It turns out that upstairs seems to be where the real life happens. Mustang is Führer now after all and downstairs seems to be intended for entertaining guests. The upper level, however, houses their... their actual marriage or whatever.

He becomes jarringly aware of that when he peers through an open door and finds a large bed, one side of which is endearingly messy while the other is properly made, military-style.

“Our bedroom,” Mustang comments from behind Ed's shoulder, and with sudden clarity Edward realizes that this is their conjugal bed. That he is not simply married to Mustang out of the blue, but that they must have kissed, that they even had sex on those very sheets.

He feels his face burn up to the tips of his ears and takes a step back.

Mustang must be interpreting his embarrassment correctly because he tactfully ignores it.

“Would you like to see your study?” he asks instead and then leads them to another room. This one is lined with bookshelves upon bookshelves, a huge oaken desk pushed up under the window which oversees the garden, and Ed's entire body thrums with the wish to spend the rest of the week in this actual treasure trove.

He passes trembling fingers over the papers strewn over the desk, marked with red ink in his handwriting. Tests. Those are tests he had graded.

“You are a professor,” Mustang explains from behind him, “Applied Alchemy, Central University. You've made quite a name for yourself.”

A name apart from Fullmetal. Huh. Ed finds himself surprisingly pleased by that revelation.

But this, for some reason, is too much. Ed can live with the dystopia; his entire life has been one, after all. He doesn't want to get used to the idea that this alleged reality is somehow pleasant, that he might actually enjoy it. Because even if Al is restored, even if Ed is a professor – he is still the equivalent of Amestris' First Lady, and that just cannot be, that just doesn't make any sense.

And yet..., he muses.

Perhaps after everything was said and done, after they defeated the homunculi and things got a little easier, a little more peaceful... he would have left the military and finally stood as Mustang's equal. He would have been able to look him in the eye and shake his hand and let bygones be bygones. And at some point they might have met again and things had just... happened.

Ed's face is burning again. He's never wasted much thought on things like romance and sex, always too busy to bother with anyone else, and apparently too rude, too arrogant, too annoying for anyone else to bother with him.

Why would Mustang of all people want to spend his life with him?  
They are back in the hallway now and Ed is fidgeting, popping the joints of his fingers.

“For...,” he starts hesitantly and then clears his throat, speaking a little louder, “For how long... has this been going on?”

He doesn't have to elaborate, sees the understanding in the pain in Mustang's dark eyes.

“We got together eight years ago,” he says but, before Ed can even really do the math, he adds, “But we've been living together for nine.”

Ed gapes.

“What the fuck,” he says. Because if that were true it meant that he would have moved on with Mustang just after what little he still remembered. And from what he does remember he mostly hated the guy's guts.

“Why the hell would I move in with you if we weren't even- f-fucking or- or whatever reason you put up with me for?” he demands, hating how his voice shakes.

“I- please don't talk like that, Edward; it was never something so limited as that between us,” Mustang says, barely more than a whisper, “There were... reasons. Good reasons, proper reasons, and when it all began we had no idea what might grow of it.”  
His right hand has come up to tentatively close around the door knob of another room, but he does not open it, does not seem to dare.

“This... might be too early,” he says, seeming to war with himself.

Ed's eyes narrow, “What's behind that door?”

A moment, a sigh, and then Mustang steps aside, so Edward pushes past him, pushes the door open.

It's another bedroom. A nursery. Not with a crib or anything, but there is a small bed with a small sweater thrown onto the duvet. There's a shelf with adventure novels and alchemy books, and another with stuffed toys and building blocks.

“What-” Ed says and doesn't get any farther than that.

“Our son's room,” Mustang says and nothing more than that.

A hysterical laugh escapes Ed, “Did we adopt or is this the result of one of your skeevy affairs?”

Mustang's face is best described as looking like someone who just bit into a lemon while simultaneously watching as his pet dog got run over.

“Ed,” he says, “Turn around.”

There's a photo wall, covered in dozens and dozens upon Polaroids. Many of them show the two cats and an assortment of other animals, a snapshot of a robin, a fox on a field. Then there are pictures of people Ed recognizes, Pinako, Winry and Paninya, Lieutenant Hawkeye, Gracia and a pre-teen girl who must be Elysia, as well a number of people he can't pinpoint at all.

But some of the photographs feature a little boy as well, a boy with sandy blonde hair and moss green eyes, a boy who smiles like the sun or alternatively sleeps with his mouth open and two cats cuddled close. A boy who looks like the spitting image of Alphonse at that age.

Everything grinds to a halt.

Edward is used to seeing his brother's face only as standstills and memories. But those were the pictures granny Pinako kept of them, pictures of him, Al and Winry conquering Riesembol, pictures of tall trees and Edward always being the shortest.

The photographs here, however, they don't show Ed as a child, but grown-up as he is now, with broad shoulders and a carefree laugh. On one of the pictures he is holding the little boy up with his automail, and the boy has his own arms thrown around Edward's neck, smiling for the camera.

Mustang didn't have an affair. Edward did. Edward knocked up some girl he doesn't remember and he raised the kid and at some point Mustang entered the picture. Easy.

Ed's son happened to look like his uncle. Genetics were funny like that. No surprise. Ed is just still a little thrown that he has a child. Nothing more than that.

He flounders, turns towards Mustang for confirmation of his silent freak-out.

But Mustang is still carrying that crestfallen expression.

“The transmutation,” he says, his voice coming from very far away, “It went wrong. Al was returned to us. But-”

“No,” Ed says, vehemently shaking his head, “You're lying. He can't- Why would- That's not how it was meant to go, it-”

“You never told me all the details,” Mustang admits, “Just that the Gate had once more chosen to reject you.”

Ed's throat feels very narrow, too narrow to properly breathe. He had never acknowledged the existence of the Gate in front of anyone else, just that short moment of painful camaraderie when Teacher figured out that he must have endured the same thing she did. He had never dared to tell anyone about it, not Al, not Winry, and here Mustang went and just knew about it already.

“No,” he repeats, and the denial is manifold now, overarching all that has been happening, “I don't believe you, I don't- that can't be, I wouldn't- Why would I just accept that, why would I give up-”

“It was Alphonse's wish,” Mustang claims and the implication of 'dying wish' hangs heavily in the abyss between them, “He wanted you to not risk any more. You didn't give up. You just... continued to live.”

A violent sob nearly escapes Ed, chokes him in his attempt to keep it in.

“I fucking abandoned him, is that what you are trying to tell me?” he hisses, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, “I fucking traded him for- for what? You?”

“You didn't abandon him, Edward,” Mustang says, even as the lines on his face seem to deepen in tandem with Ed's despair, “You still love him more than should be humanly possible. Even more so now because he is your son.”

“He's not my-,” Edward objects and this time he really does sob, tries to keep his trembling knees fighting against overwhelming gravity, “He's my little brother. I was supposed to protect him.”

Mustang finally seems to have run out of words and reaches out a feeble hand to touch Ed's shoulder, but Ed just wrests away, slams his back against the wall behind him, a vague imitation of steadiness. So Mustang stills, lets his hand drop to his side.

They stand like this for a while, Ed only staring down at their feet, unable to look Mustang in the eye.

Eventually, Mustang lets out a breath, not a sigh even, more of a wheeze, as though there have been tiny holes poked into him and all the fuel that had kept him going until now finally escapes.

“I sent Havoc to pick him up from school. You usually do that on Tuesdays so Alphonse will know right away that something is off,” he explains, “So you have two options. We could set him up with Shezka or someone for the night until you... are feeling better. Or-”

“No,” Ed says, forcing himself to look up, “No, I want to see him.”

No matter how desperate he was right now, he was always more desperate about seeing Al healthy and whole again. Everything else had to wait. Self-destruction had always been Ed's forte anyway.

“Very well,” Mustang agrees as though he had not expected anything else. Maybe he hasn't. Maybe he does know Ed pretty well. Maybe Ed simply never changed.

“But... there is one thing I have to ask of you,” he adds, “I know you will probably... be overwhelmed by seeing Al again. But. He's not your little brother anymore. He truly thinks you are his father. We... we want to tell him everything one day, but we haven't yet, and this is... possibly the worst time to do it. Your world just got turned on its head and we shouldn't do the same to his.”

The inside of Ed's mouth are hollow and dry. He jerks out a nod.

“Yeah,” he says, “Yeah, I can- I can do that.”

He'll have to act of course, will have to keep secrets from Al a-fucking-gain. But he'll get to hold him in his arms and hear his voice once more. That's the one thing that had always grounded Ed. Al's voice.

“Very well,” Mustang says again, like a broken record that doesn't know any new songs and hasn't yet realized that all Ed wants is silence.

 

Ed drinks a large glass of water and puts on his best poker face. His best poker face is still pretty crappy, though, and Mustang keeps sending him these little worried glances as they sit in the living-room and wait.

At some point the doorbell rings and everything inside of Ed tenses. He remains seated, though, clenches his hands around his knees and watches as Mustang stands up and leaves the room.

The front door opens and Ed can hear hear Mustangs calm and muffled voice, probably explaining the situation for the n-th time today.

Ed cannot wait anymore. Not when he knows that his little brother is just a few meters away. He pushes himself up from the sofa and moves towards the door. He doesn't get far.

“Daddy!” Al yells and throws himself at Ed, “Are you alright?!”  
The force of it neatly knocks Ed back onto his ass, but his arms automatically close around Al.

Al, tiny and nine and just like Ed remembers him from their childhood. Only that Al had never really been smaller than Ed, neither as a kid nor in the armor, and Ed had never gotten the chance to engulf him so fully.

“Careful, Alphonse,” Mustang chides gently, standing in the doorway, “He still got injured.”

“Sorry,” Al says, a little muffled from where his face is smothered against the side of Ed's neck, “'m just happy.”

Ed is, too. Ed can barely think around the relief of feeling his brother's skin once more, his heartbeat, his breath. Words fail him and he just clenches his fingers in the back of what must be Al's school uniform, though there is still the underlying fear that reaching for the mirage might make it disappear.

Eventually, it is Al who pulls back, only slightly, only just enough to properly look at him.

“Do you really not remember me?” he asks and his eyes are big and green and sincere, his eyes are Al's, his eyes are mom's, and there were too many times when Ed had thought that he would never see them again.  
“I-” he chokes, parched, “Bits and pieces.”

Because he cannot act like he doesn't know Al, not when Al's existence has always been the most integral part of his own.

“That's okay,” Al says resolutely, though there are some tears caught in his lashes, “We'll make you remember, just you wait.”

 

Ed doesn't remember. No matter how many funny anecdotes Al tries to tell him, about the cats, and Al's school, and Ed's colleagues, it only seems to be giving Ed a headache.

Instead all he sees are memories of their childhood in Riesembol, Al tumbling through the grass, holding hands with Winry, petting a horse. Al in Dublith, playing with the other children, rubbing his eyes as he pores over a book, and Ed cannot look away.

They sit around the kitchen table and Al excitedly waves his hands, re-telling this story and that one, getting side-tracked, starting again. He is so precious and Ed laughs and smiles and wants to cry with how much he loves him and cannot tell him.

Mustang sits with them and his knuckles are casually pressed against his lips, but it rather looks as though he his trying to hide. Ed tries not to think about what that means.

“Alphonse,” Mustang says at some point, “Maybe we let your father rest now.”

Alphonse mouth closes mid-sentence and he looks chastised.

“Oh,” he says, “Yes. Are you tired, daddy?”

Ed is, in too many ways to count.

“Yeah,” he says, shrugs his shoulders, “I guess.”

“Maybe we should all go to bed,” Mustang proposes, “It's been a long day. For all of us.”

Al nods, jumps up from his chair, always in motion, and none of his joints clatter. He is the brightest little nine-year-old Ed has ever known. He is perfect.

“I'll go brush my teeth then,” Al announces and he's already tripping over his feet on his way out of the kitchen.

Once more, Edward is left alone with Mustang and that is one of the last things he wants.

Roughly, he clears his throat. “Hey, Mustang, can I use the phone?”

“This is your house as much as it is mine, Edward,” Mustang replies generously, “You are free to use anything you like.”

Mustang calling him by his first name will never not be weird, but Ed just nods and steps into the hallway.

Nine years, he reminds himself as he picks up the phone to dial. Will the number even work anymore?

But for maybe the first time today, luck is on his side.

“Rockbell Automail?”

“Winry,” Ed says, his voice straining a little under the effort of trying not to break, “Win, it's me, I-”

“Oh, Ed,” Winry nearly sobs, “I was waiting for you to call, I figured-”

It takes Ed a moment to understand that Winry apparently already knows, that Mustang must have filled her in when he said at the hospital that he was going to make some phone calls, that Ed at least won't have to explain this to her in slow excruciating detail.

“Yeah,” he says, wavering, “So, that happened. Pretty crappy, huh?”

She gives a wet laugh, “I don't think crappy even begins to cover it.”

“True,” he agrees, “There's just so much that- I mean, Al and- and fuckin' _Mustang_ and- I don't even know which is worse.”

“Ed, I- I can't even begin to understand how you must be feeling right now, but... please don't look at this like the worst case scenario. Things are pretty good for you at the moment. Really good. Don't- don't make the mistake of just rejecting any of that outright.”

Fat chance of that happening. Ed could break out in hives with how wrong this world feels to him.

He bites his lip.

“Do you... do you think you could come here maybe?” he asks because he needs someone right now, someone whom he can trust completely. For the first time in his life, Alphonse is not that someone.

“Oh, that-,” Winry cuts herself off, sounding regretful, “I can't leave granny alone. She... Ed, she fell and broke her hip a couple of months ago, she is pretty much tied to the bed. And Ninya's neck-deep in her finals, so she can't come down from West City.”

Something about that lets Ed perk up in surprise.

“Wait,” he says slowly, “You- you and Paninya??”

“Wow, déjà vu much,” Winry jokes and laughs a little, “Yeah, for a while now. Longer than you and Roy actually.”

It's odd to hear Winry speak Mustang's name so casually, so familiarly. Like he is just that. Family.

“You should try Russel,” she adds, “I think you mentioned he's in Central at the moment.”

Ed nearly chokes on his spit right then and there.

“I am friends with _Russel_??” he gapes, because in a way that is even more mind-boggling than his being married to Mustang.

“Well, I wouldn't exactly call you friends,” Winry muses, “Um. Amicable antagonists maybe?”

“That- no,” Ed says, vehemently shaking his head, “That is going too far. I need- I need to call teacher.”

From the other end of the line there is a stricken silence, heavy and foreboding.

“Oh, Ed,” Winry moans miserably and Edward's bones seem to turn to icicles inside his body.

“No,” he says, his mouth dry, “No no no. That can't- that isn't-”

“I'm so sorry,” Winry whispers, “I didn't even consider- You've forgotten _everything_. ”

“When- when did it happen?” he stammers.

“Two years ago,” Winry says, “We attended the funeral together. I- she left you a letter. I don't know what it says but maybe... maybe you should read it. It might help.”

Ed breathes through his nose, harsh and harrowed.

“Anyone else?” he asks, “Anything I should know?”

“Um,” Winry is clearing her throat, to stall or to keep her own grief in check, “There's... well, I don't know whether you forgot that much, but... Lieutenant Colonel Hughes.”

Ed closes his eyes.

“How?” he asks simply because somehow he already knows that it will be his fault.

“He was shot. By Envy.”

Ed swallows repeatedly but neither the sour taste in his mouth nor the lump in his throat dissipate.

“And,” Winry continues carefully, “Your father.”

“Fuck him,” Ed says, more out of habit than anything else.

“No, Ed, he- you reached some sort of agreement at the end,” Winry tells him, “He came to see you and Al one last time and then he returned to Riesembol. He's buried by your mother's side.”

Ed nods numbly, realizes that Winry can't even see it, stops.

“Did he... did he know?” he asks, and Winry can read him well enough that he doesn't have to elaborate.

“He attended Al's first birthday party. I talked to him a little and he seemed... proud maybe. Relieved. He loved both of you very much.”

“Whatever,” Ed says and presses his automail hand against his mouth before he is able to continue, “That just means I'll have to dial up that idiot Russel after all, huh?”  
“Don't be too mean to him,” Winry chides, forcefully trying to sound more chipper in turn, “You actually get along quite well now.”

“I'll believe that when I see it,” Ed huffs, “No, actually, I probably won't. This day has been a total opium dream.”

“It's only been a couple of hours,” Winry points out reassuringly, “Maybe tomorrow morning you'll wake up and remember everything.”

“When has life ever been that easy?” he demands, rubbing the heel of his thumb over his gauze-covered temple, “Alright. I- I guess I'll spend some time with Al now. It's pretty late anyway.”

“You do that,” Winry says gently, “And... don't be too harsh on Roy, alright? He's already got enough on his plate, what with Drachma and Xing and everything.”

Ed had never much cared for politics in the first place and the current intricacies were obviously lost on him even more, so he just drawls out a lazy, “Yeah, yeah.”

“Okay,” Winry says again, “And remember you can call me any time you need to.”

“Will do,” Ed promises, albeit somewhat half-heartedly, “Night, Win.”

“Good night, Ed,” she says back and then doesn't hang up the phone, so Ed eventually has to do it himself.

He stands in the hallway for a moment, thinks. He hadn't been lying when he said that it was pretty late. After their mother's death, Ed had never much adhered to a proper bedtime, even when studying under Izumi. He had always stayed up late, reading, researching.

Al had been different, out like a light as soon as his head hit the pillow. He was probably the same now. And somehow, Ed had a feeling that Mustang would insist on keeping reasonable hours.

What a thought. Mustang butting in on what bedtime Ed's little brother ought to have. Maybe Ed should just ask him about it.

He makes his way up the stairs, but once there he only catches the tail-end of Al disappearing in the bathroom.

“And don't forget to brush your hair,” Roy calls through the closing door, before he looks up and locks eyes with Edward. His mouth opens as though he were about to say something else, but then he pauses, reconsiders, says something else.

“Did you talk to Winry?”  
“Yeah,” Ed says and leaves it at that because he already cannot take just how sorry Mustang looks.

In spite of his previous plans, he opts for escape or at least for denial, and just veers off into the bedroom that he had previously only glanced into before.

The calico cat – Dandelion, as Al had informed him - that had been dozing on the bed jumps up when he enters and saunters past him, her tail caressing along his shin.

“Hey,” he tries, feeling Mustang behind him, “Is... is Black Hayate still alive?”

He does not know why he needs to know it. Just that Den must be dead, too, and that his brain cannot fathom the many tragedies he has to mourn today.

“Yes,” Mustang replies, moving through the room almost reverently, “Growing a little deaf these days, but Riza always taught him hand signs as well.”

“That's nice,” Ed nods, “Yeah, that's... nice.”

And then they stand in awkward silence.

“You probably need some pajamas,” Mustang notes eventually, visibly giving himself a push and turning to open a drawer, taking a moment to rifle through it, “And there are fresh toothbrushes in the cabinet over the sink in the bathroom. You already have one, obviously, but I thought it might still be a little odd to use your old one. So.”

Mustang is rambling. Ed doesn't think he has ever seen Mustang ramble except for when the man was putting on a show and playing the vapid airhead. This, however, is new. Endearing and unsettling at the same time.

“Yeah,” Ed says, accepting the pajamas, pulling back quickly so their hands don't brush, “Thanks.”

Mustang clears his throat, primly squares his shoulders.

“You can have the bed,” he offers, “I will sleep in the guest room.”

“No, it's alright,” Ed waves him off quickly, “I'll... I'll just huddle up with Al.”

It's not just that he doesn't want to sleep in a bed that must smell of him and Mustang, of the two of them together. It's that he still cannot believe that his little brother is human again, a child once more, but still human. Edward wants to spend the whole night lying awake and just watching him sleep, listening to him breathe. It's the only comfort this strange and terrifying future has to offer.

Mustang must know that, he has to, so the flicker of disappointment on his face is only momentary. He will not read it as another rejection of their alleged relationship. Ed will not blame himself for this as well. He cannot bear it.

“Of course,” Mustang agrees, giving a curt nod, “In that case, I hope you sleep well.”

Unlike Winry he does not imply that things will just get better over night, that sleep is a magical cure-all.

“Cool. So... night, I guess,” Ed says, already turning to leave.

“Goodnight,” Mustang replies and then, much more quietly, he adds, “And, Edward?”

Ed stills and glances back over his shoulder, “Yeah?”

“Could you... could you at least call me Roy?”

Ed's breath hitches.

“I'll try,” he says and doesn't know whether he means it.

 

Al is already in bed but when Ed sneaks in his lifts his head off the pillow.

“I figured you might not want to sleep with Father tonight,” he whispers, apparently mindful of the cats that have curled up at the foot of the bed.

Ed tries not to choke.

“Yeah,” he forces out, “You got room for one more?”

“Sure,” Al says and pulls the duvet aside so Ed can slip underneath.

Al is wearing a powdery blue pajama and has a threadbare teddy cradled in his arm, a red ribbon tied around its neck. When they were children and couldn't sleep they had just crawled into bed with each other. Much like Edward is doing now. And if he weren't suddenly much bigger than Al he could almost pretend that this was just a precious childhood memory.

Once Ed has gotten somewhat comfortable on the narrow bed, Al buries back into his own pillow.

“Goodnight, daddy,” he whispers sleepily.

Edward freezes.

“Night, Al,” he says at length and if there are tears in his eyes then at least it's too dark for anyone to see.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what was the most heart-breaking about this chapter, in your opinion?


	3. Edward III

When Edward wakes, Al is gone.

For a moment that is all there is to this new reality, but then the knowledge of the day before slams into him like a freight train, while still leaving the past ten year precariously blank.

Ed curses under his breath as he sits up in the empty bed, rubbing a hand over his face. He feels terrible, his body achy and his head throbbing again, but he just shrugs it off and rolls to his feet.

He finds a set of clothes neatly folded on the drawer by the door, doubtlessly put there by Al or Mustang, so he grabs it and makes his way to the bathroom which he manages to find after a few moments of peering through open doors.

He unravels the gauze around his head, prods at the bump at the bump on his temple. His hippocampus must have taken the biggest hit, he thinks, and if the damage it sustained was substantial his memories might be irreversibly lost. There was no way to look into a person's head, though, and Ed himself had never much bothered with medical studies, apart from what he needed to figure out the process of human transmutation.

He slips out of his pajama and clambers into the shower, letting the hot water run over him like a sanctuary, trying to rub the tension from his joints.

There are bruises forming all over his body now because it had not only been his brain that had gotten knocked around in the explosion. He inspects them when he dries himself off in front of the mirror, the black and blue pattern on his back, the hematoma forming along the side of his ribs which had at least protected him from further internal damage.

There is a smaller, redder bruise on his neck which he fingers curiously, wondering what might have caused it. It's very superficial, barely even hurts, round and rosy like a... like the shape of a mouth.

Suddenly, Ed's lungs are devoid of breath.

He had known that he was married to Mustang, had known that they are sharing a bed and that they probably did all the things that marital duties entailed. But there is a difference between knowing and truly understanding.

His body. His body that had been taken and twisted so many times and in so many different ways, carried the mark of someone else on him – and he doesn't even remember it. Mustang had- had touched him and kissed him and bitten his skin hard enough to leave a bruise, and Ed has no control over it, no means to reverse it.

Mustang had fucked him and apparently Ed had liked it enough to marry him. Mustang had fucked him and the mere thought of it has the Gate's black hands crawl all over him again, picking him apart.

Edward sinks onto the floor and breathes into his hollow palms to keep himself alive.

 

He stitches himself back together, braids his damp hair, puts on the unfamiliar clothes, and then goes downstairs, following the scent of bacon.

Alphonse and Mustang are in the kitchen, apparently preparing breakfast together.

“Good morning, daddy,” Al chirps immediately, “We made pancakes.”

“Morning, Al,” Ed replies with fuzzy edges and reaches out to ruffles his hair because he can do that now. Under his palm, Alphonse preens.

“Good morning, Edward,” Mustang says. His voice is not sleepy soft, but vague and gentle like the early sunlight. He is already in his uniform, though, boots and buttons polished to perfection.

“Yeah, uh,” Ed clears his throat, “Morning.”

Mustang gives him a once-over, followed by a curious little smile.

“What?” Ed demands tersely.

“Nothing, just...,” Mustang shakes his head in a fond manner, “It's been a while since you wore your hair like that. I guess I'm just feeling nostalgic.”

Self-consciously, Ed reaches around his back, toys with the end of his braid. It's longer than it used to be and some part of him seizes with the sudden urge to just hack it off.

He resists, though, seats himself at the table, the legs of his chair scratching over the floor, and then Al is already setting a laden plate in front of him.

Ed didn't have dinner last night and now he can feel the effects of it, his hunger demandingly rearing its head, and he takes up the cutlery, fondles it for a moment.

“So,” he starts, waiting for Al and Mustang to sit down as well, “What's the plan for today?”  
“I already informed your office that you won't be coming in,” Mustang tells him, “So that shouldn't be a problem. But, ah.” He looks uncertain for a moment, glances down at his place and then back up again. “Edward, I swear I wish I could stay with you today – if you wanted me to, that is – but. There are several conferences that I just cannot cancel. The situation between-”

“Drachma and Xing,” Ed waves him off, “Yeah, already heard about that. What about Al, though?”

“I have school,” Al pipes up, “But I could skip.”

“Which, I'm afraid, would lead to additional rumors,” Mustang points out. “I'm sorry, Ed,” he adds, “But we're trying to keep your condition under wraps. Some people might try to... take advantage. If Al ended up missing school as well, they might assume... But if you'd prefer, he could of course keep you company.”

Mustang is so strangely circumspect of him, so considerate where he had once been nothing but challenging, and Edward is starting to hate how meek and mellow it is making him sound.

“Yeah, no, that's alright,” he shrugs, forcefully careless, “I was thinking of meeting Russel anyway.”

Mustang chokes, coughs his coffee back up, “You're meeting Russel?”

“Yeah,” Ed frowns, “Problem?”

“No, no,” Mustang shakes his head, “Just that he... has a habit of getting you riled up. Try not to get into any public fights with him, alright?”

Ed grins, “That happen before?”

“Once or twice,” Mustang sighs, “So I guess as long as you keep the property damage to a minimum, I should be able to excuse it to the public.”

“Hmm,” Ed hums, “We'll see. I bet he's still as insufferable as he used to be.”

“Trust me,” Mustang looks exasperated, “He is.”

 

Ed knows his way around Central. He knows the streets and the bridges. He knows the people and the skyline. He does not know how to react to strangers politely greeting him, inquiring about his well-being, in one case even bowing to him. He does not know what to make of the newspapers that scream headlines about the explosion at the university, with black and white photographs leading him out of the hospital with a forbidden expression on his face.

So he flips up the collar of his coat and hurries down the sidewalk, staring down at his feet in hopes of people fucking catching a hint and leaving him alone.

But no such luck.

“Edward,” a female voice greets, sounding slightly harried, and since everyone else had addressed him as either 'Professor' or 'Mister Elric-Mustang', he cannot even stop himself from looking up.

A tall dark-haired woman is standing on the sidewalk, a little girl hanging off her hand. They are both impeccably dressed and Ed has absolutely no clue who they might be.

“It's so good to see you up and about,” she tells him, actually looking relieved, “When I heard you got injured we were very worried, weren't we, Elaine?”

“Yes, mommy,” Elaine agrees dutifully, her big doe eyes blinking up at Ed.

“Yeah,” Ed nods, recalling what Mustang had told him about not divulging his amnesia, “Um. Thanks.”

“Is the play-date still on then?” the woman asks, “It's just that Ephraim has just returned from Drachma and tomorrow is the first time I get to see him and- Well. You know how it is with kids around.”

“Sure,” Ed says, wrinkling his nose, because apparently this virtual stranger is looking to hand off her kid to him so she can have some quality with her husband.

“Wonderful,” she smiles, a little too perfect, a little to calculated, but the look in her eyes is surprisingly warm, “You are a life-saver.”

“Oh,” Ed says and smirks wryly, “You have no idea.”

 

He meets Russel in a small café close to the State Library. Ed has never been here before but at least on the outside it doesn't seem to have changed much. It's neutral ground and they quickly find a secluded spot where they can talk privately.

Russel, to Edward's quietly seething relief, has not changed either. He is still taller than Ed, stills wears that pretentiously tussled hair, still looks at everyone around him as though they were vaguely amusing chimpanzees and he the only homo sapiens sapiens.

“So,” Russel props his chin up on his hand, gazing at Ed through lowers lashes, “You forgot everything.”

“Not _everything_ ,” Ed claims, though it's pretty much half of his life, “Just... a lot of the important bits, it seems.”

Russel clicks his tongue, “So I reckon you don't recall how you wanted me to deflower you.”

Immediately, Ed spits his coffee back into his cup, “What??”

Russel just snorts and rolls his eyes.

“It's true,” he says with a lackadaisical shrug, “But it's alright. You were young and foolish.”

Ed gives him a disgusted look, “Why on earth would I want to do anything like that with you?”

“Maybe because I am the best-looking man of your acquaintance?” Russel teases mildly, “I mean, I would have been up for a roll in the sheets but you... you didn't want _me_.”

Ed glares, “Then what did I want?”

“To this day, I haven't quite figured it out,” Russel muses, “Maybe you wanted to get your first time behind you as quickly as possible, maybe you wanted to gather experience, or you wanted to make Mustang jealous. But you wanted him, and I was merely a stepladder.”

Ed stares, unable to quite compute this, but Russel just continues.

“This is what this little meet-up is about, isn't it?” he asks smoothly, “You having a nervous breakdown about your picture-perfect family.”

“I-,” Ed begins and swallows, “Yeah, I guess.”

“Mustang's quite a catch, Elric,” Russel claims and inwardly Edward cannot help but preen at hearing his name on its own once more. “Youngest General, youngest Führer, first State Alchemist to make Führer. He had no money and no name, but he made it to the top, and with surprisingly little bloodshed, too. He's a true diplomat, I have to give him that. Even now with everything happening between Drachma and Xing, he manages to keep a cool head and play mediator. The people still are not used to peace, but he makes it easy to believe in a better future.”

“What are you, a speech writer for his campaign?” Ed scoffs, furiously stirring his tiny spoon in his coffee.

“I pay respect where it is due,” Russel claims easily, “Though I do admit to being a little disappointed when I first saw you being playing housewife for him.”

Ed freezes. “I- I'm not-,” he stammers and Russel rolls his eyes again.

“Of course you're not,” he huffs, “It's just that you were the last person I every expected to lead a healthy, happy life style. That's not even jealousy speaking; I'm not exactly the marrying type myself, you know. But... when we were teenagers, you always seemed larger than life. Invincible. And then I find you raising Al as your son. Took some time getting used to.”

Ed purses his lips, though he cannot help the embarrassment that curses through his veins at Russel's open honesty.

Seeming to realize this, Russel sighs, running a hand through his stupid hair, artfully messing it up.

“Look, Ed,” he says, “We're not... all buddy buddy with each other. When we meet up we talk about science, not feelings. And our lives are too different for me to fathom what you must be going through at the moment. But what you and Mustang have going on is good. Really good. I danced at your wedding, for Heaven's sake, and let me tell you the whole thing was so heart-warming I nearly vomited onto your cake.”

“Er,” Ed frowns, “Okay.”

“What I'm trying to say is,” Russel plows on, “Can't you just trust you pre-amnesiac self that you made the right decision?”

“No,” Ed shakes his head, “I've made too many mistakes for that.”

“Why do you have to be such a self-sacrificing, miserable ass?” Russel groans, “The world is not out to get you. Well. For the most part.”

“Yeah?” Ed cocks his eyebrow, lifts his automail hand, “Homunculi? Philosopher's stone? Anything ring a bell?”

“But then everything turned out fine in the end.”

“My little brother calls me 'daddy', you shit,” Ed growls, “And I got a hickey on my neck that I'm pretty sure my C.O. put there.”

“Yeah, I always had a feeling he fucks you well,” Russel drawls, delightfully watching Ed squirm, “You are _such_ a virgin.”

“Can you _not_?” Ed grits out, tersely gripping the edge of the table, “I just... I need to understand what has been going on. So far, all the answers I've been given have just raised more questions.”

Russel sighs, “Yes, that's how I felt back then when you, you know, finally deigned to tell Fletcher and me the truth about everything.”

“Yeah, that's what I'd like to know about,” Ed scoffs, “What the hell happened from... from then to now?”

Russel's lips purse, “Exactly what do you remember?”

“I don't... know,” Ed says haltingly, trying to rummage around his brain without setting off his headache again, “There's no clean cut. The edges are kind of jagged. I was... I remember my sixteenth birthday but everything after that is sort of jumbled and lose. Like... I got the pieces of the puzzle but I can't seem to put them together.”

“Hm,” Russel hums, running a fingertip over the rim of his coffee cup, “Let's just say that around that time everything went pear-shaped.” And his voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, “Mustang when to overthrow the government and you ran off to face the creator of the homunculi.”

“Dante,” Edward says and his nose crinkles at the memory of her stench.

“Dante,” Russel agrees and then looks thoughtful. “There was... a city underneath the city. You and Al went down. Fletcher and me stayed behind. We waited for hours. Eventually, you returned. Alphonse was carrying you. You were unconscious and covered in blood. I was sure you were dead. But you know what they say – fortune favors fools. You pulled through. Big surprise, considering you're still here ten years later.”

There should be venom in his voice, but instead there is something like quiet relief. Fondness. Like he really actually does like Ed now. Like maybe he had all along.

“I didn't see you again for a while after that,” he adds, leaning back in his chair and shrugging off his somber expression right along with it, “I never even knew what your deal was, why all that crazy stuff kept happening all around you. I admit I was curious but, frankly, I didn't want to get involved in your business any more. But then Fletcher wanted to see Alphonse again and we started asking around. Talked to Maria Ross who talked to Armstrong. He directed us to Mustang. And there you were, playing house.”

And here I am, still doing it, Ed cannot help but think.

Because he is in twenty-five and has been raising a child for the past nine years. His mother had only been twenty-one when she had given birth to him and that was young, even for a village like Riesembol where people often got married right out of school.

Was that... how he had ended up with Mustang? The man had said that they had started living together before anything even happened between them. If that was to be believed... had Ed simply chosen the lesser evil and made use of the stability and security Mustang could offer?

Because with Al as a kid and Ed basically still being a kid as well... their options would have been limited. It wasn't the first time Ed had made sacrifices for Al and, as Russel had already pointed out, Mustang was a good catch.

“Ooh, please stop,” Russel complains, making a show of rubbing his temple with two manicured fingers.

Edward glares, “I didn't do anything.”

“You have that look of martyrdom on your face again,” Russel flicks his wrist, “I can't believe I'd almost forgotten what it looked like.”

“Screw you,” Ed growls lowly and he kind of hates how sniping at Russel makes it really hard to focus on his misery. Though maybe that was Russel's intention all along.

“Anyway,” Russel gives a luxurious shrug, “I have to get back to my lab. Where I know better than to blow myself up. You should try that sometime, you know?”

Edward barely resists the urge to stick out his tongue at him because, whether sixteen or twenty-five, that would probably be an immature move.

“Whatever,” he downs the last of his coffee, “I have a doctor's appointment anyway.”

Surprisingly, a tighter edge creeps into the corner of Russel's mouth, “They have any idea how to cure you then?”

Slowly, Ed lets out a breath between his teeth, “Apart from looking at Mustang's ugly mug and hoping that it'll trigger some memory of our married bliss? Doesn't seem like it.”

“Careful,” Russel teases as he stands up, pushing his chair under the table, putting down some coins to pay for their orders, “If you keep talking like this, I might try my luck with him. He does seem to have a thing for blondes after all.”

“Whoever thinks were are friends needs a fucking reality check,” Ed groans, making his way through the café, “But by all means, go for it. Not like he's probably gonna want to stick around for much longer.”

This time, there is no instant snark and Ed finds himself glancing back, blinking up at Russel. “What?”

“You're not allowed to talk like that,” Russel splutters, appalled, “I constantly joke about breaking you up. But you... Ed, no matter how messed up you are right now, you cannot honestly think that your husband – who has been with you for the better part of a decade – would just abandon you now.”

“Well,” Ed rolls his shoulders, uncomfortable, “Worst-case scenarios are kind of my thing.”

“Go to that appointment,” Russel says and claps him on the shoulder, “Get your head checked out.”

The door falls shut behind them with the chime of a bell and then Russel is already sauntering down the sidewalk.

A tight feeling seizes Ed's chest as he watches the other's retreating back.

“Hey, Russel!” he calls out, his voice wavering with the mild wind, but the other man tilts his body around again anyway, not bothering to come to a stop.

“Sorry for treating you like that,” Ed tells him resolutely, “You know, back then.”

“Huh,” Russel actually looks somewhat surprised, “Didn't think you'd ever apologize for that. Only took you eight years and a mangled brain to get to this point.”

“Shut up.”

“Go kiss the Führer for me, Elric,” Russel singsongs and neatly pushes Ed right back into the blissful abyss of hating him.

 

Edward decides that he likes Doctor Nelson. He likes how she reminds him of Granny Pinako, how she holds herself with a poise that is not military but years of being the best at what she does. He likes how she seems annoyed by her glasses and the strands of hair that keep slipping across her face. He likes how she doesn't sugarcoat things.

“I won't lie to you, Mister Elric,” she tells him primly, crossing her arms in front of her chest, “Head injuries are often unpredictable and we still lack the means to properly examine and treat them. The chances of you regaining your memories could be anything between one-hundred to zero percent.”

Ed nods. He had already expected as much.

But Doctor Nelson gives him an all too keen-eyed look over the rim of her glasses.

“That is,” she says slowly, “If you are even concerned with getting them back.”

So maybe her bluntness was slightly off-putting. Whatever. Ed could deal with that.

When she had questioned him about possibly resurfacing memories and his adjustment to life at home, his terse monosyllabic answers must have already clued her in.

Ed's lips purse, feeling terribly caught out.

“You don't know what it's like,” he tells her, “The- Everything is different. Everything. A third of the people that- that meant something are dead. The rest is changed. The rest is convinced that I'm living the life right now and that I should make an effort.”

“You cannot force something like that,” the woman agrees, “Encourage it, certainly, but little more than that. Most of the time, it's more luck than anything else.”

“So what?” Ed asks, “Am I just supposed to wait it out? For how long?”

“I'm a neuro-trauma specialist,” she points out, “If you need life advice, we have a psychologist who would be happy to see you. Careful, though, sometimes people still get sent to the asylum.”

Edward glowers at her. Maybe he doesn't like her that much after all.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” she asks him.

“Don't know,” he thinks for a moment, “I think Al has a play date with someone else's kid.”

“Perfect,” she says, “Routine but without the pressure. Try to find back into the mindset you might have had before the accident. Have your son and your husband help you. Wake up at the same time as before, prepare everything as before. It's the little things.”

Two little rings abandoned on the side of the sink in the bathroom. A little kiss mark on the side of his neck. A little kid who still goes by the same name.

“Sure,” Ed says, because he has pledged his life, he has faced the Gate and chimera and homunculi. “Sure, I can do that.”

After all, it is not the first time he has watched parts of himself disintegrate.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From tomorrow onward I will be super busy with work, so I don't know whether I'll be able to get the next chapter out on time. I'll do my best, though.
> 
> In the meanwhile, I hope you enjoy Ed's quiet anguish. ;)


	4. Alphonse I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! First time writing from Al's POV in this 'verse because that little bugger is so wonderfully observant. Also, I know you people keep asking me not to hurt him, but... you should know me by now. ;)

 

Al's family is a bit of a mismatched bunch.

There is Gran Christmas who owns a special bar and wears fancy lipstick and smokes slim cigarettes, and Granny Pinako who is a Doctor and really short and smokes the pipe.

There is Aunt Riza who can silence anyone with just a look, and Aunt Winry who sometimes throws tantrums and big wrenches. There is Aunt Winry's girlfriend Paninya who has automail, too, and Gracia and Elysia who live in East City. There is Alex who is big like a mountain but really nice, and Sig who is much the same, only quieter andwith less tears of joy.

Then there is Father whose hair is dark and short and who doesn't look like Al at all, and Daddy who is blonde and who does because he and Al are related by blood. Father is the Führer President of Amestris and Daddy is a professor at Central City University. And they all love each other very much.

That's pretty much how Al would describe his family if he were given one of those writing assignments they sometimes have to do for class, the ones Al neatly scribbles down in three minutes while his classmates are still sitting with the tips of their tongues between their lips and carefully etching out the first word.

Idly, Al wonders what kind of answer he would have written today if he could actually be honest about the situation. And if school were on. And if the teacher bothered to call on him to read out his text which she never does because she knows he's rather underwhelmed by the task.

Luckily, it's a Saturday, though, and Al won't have to worry about school for now. With means he has much time on his hands to worry about daddy instead.

“Good morning, daddy,” Al trills when he wakes daddy who grunts a little and buries deeper into the pillows. But right now, Al knows daddy better than daddy knows himself.

“Aren't you hungry?” he asks innocently and immediately sees one of daddy's eyes blink open.

Because some things never chance, not even when daddy suffers from major amnesia, and Al can definitely use that to his advantage.

 

The kitchen is tidy and empty, and Ed looks around, suspicious.

“Where's- um,” he asks and then doesn't seem to know how to finish the question.

“Father had to go into the office early,” Al answers smoothly, pointing to the kitchen table, “He left a note.”  
Daddy frowns, “Does that happen a lot?”

Al shakes his head, “Just since things got more tense between Xing and Drachma. He has to play mediator.”

Daddy hums, but the frown does not quite vanish.

“So,” Al says enthusiastically, “What are we doing today?”

“Huh?”

“Well, I figure I get to babysit you for a change.”

Daddy gives him a slightly exasperated look but then sighs. “The doctor said I should stick to my routine and see whether that triggers anything.”

“Okay, we can do that.”

“Yeah,” daddy scratches his head, thoughtful, “Actually, I met a woman yesterday. She had a little girl. Um, Elaine, I think? They mentioned a play date.”  
“Oh, I almost forgot about that!” Al exclaims, quickly thinking about what daddy needs to know, “So, the lady was Evelyn Fairchild and her husband Ephraim actually campaigned against Father in the last elections. And then you kinda struck up this weird friendship with Evelyn where you make fun of politicians. Including your husbands.”

“Er,” daddy stares, “Okay.”

Al nods, “Should I call Elaine and tell her not to come over?”

“No, no,” daddy shakes his head, “I guess I can manage that. Routine, remember?”

You're the one who doesn't remember, Al thinks vaguely but doesn't let it pull him down.

“Good idea!” he agrees, “How about we start with breakfast?”

“Alright,” daddy says, a little less chipper but at least making an effort, and then promptly spends five minutes going through all the cupboards in order to find everything he needs because he has no idea where things are stored.

“What would you like?” daddy asks.

“Cocoa milk and a sandwich with the crust cut off,” Al demands happily and then watches as daddy pulls a face while he is merely pouring the milk. Yup, some things definitely don't change.

“There you go,” daddy says eventually and sets a plate and a big orange cup in front of Al. The cup is daddy's favorite one, but Al doesn't bother to point that out.

“Thank you,” Al chirps and promptly takes a big gulp. His eyes widen in surprise.

“Daddy,” he says, “How did you know how I like my cocoa best?”

“Oh,” daddy shrugs uncomfortably, “Just a hunch.”

“No, daddy,” Al sits up, “You subconsciously remembered something! So it's still all there, you just need to remember the rest.”

“No, Al, that's not...,” daddy drags a hand over his face, like he always does when he is particularly exhausted but trying not to be short with him, “That doesn't mean anything, Al, believe me.”

Al... doesn't understand why daddy would react like that, why he would reject the notion so outright. But he deems it best to not talk back.

“Elaine should be here at about eleven,” Al he says instead, “So we should have breakfast and then go shower.”

“Sounds good to me,” daddy agrees, heavily sinking down on the wrong chair, and Al puts on a brave smile.

 

Luckily, Evelyn Fairchild seems a little too preoccupied for small talk today, so she does not notice that daddy is not quite acting like his usual self.

“Again, thank you so much, Edward,” she says, “Ephraim has to be back in the office in a couple of hours, so we have to make the most of it.”

She glances over her shoulder, beckons Elaine into the house, “Come on, sweetheart, take off your shoes and stop sniffing Cesare.”

“But he sniffed my butt, too,” Elaine insists but does as she is told. Cesare, the Fairchilds' Great Dane, follows her inside, obediently sitting on his haunches. Dandelion and Maple are already waiting somewhere in the shadows, doubtlessly planning to pounce him.

“I'll come pick her up in about three hours,” Evelyn tells Edward, “I really owe you for this.”

“No problem,” daddy waves her off, looking relieved when she doesn't go in for a hug and instead bends down to kiss Elaine on the cheek.

“Behave,” she tells her daughter and then points a finger at Cesare, “You, too.”

Elaine gives a solemn nod and Cesare a mellow bark, and Evelyn is already sweeping out the door again, heels clicking on the pavement.

“Alright,” daddy says, hands on his hips, “Anyone up for playing catch in the garden but with an alchemically engineered obstacle course? Whoever says no is a boring little turd.”

 

Neither Elaine nor Alphonse are boring little turds, so the early noon is spent whizzing through the garden, crawling through tunnels, evading moving dummies, and climbing over walls. There are water fountains and a sculpture of an elephant, and Al has the best daddy in the world!

Daddy seems to be enjoying himself, too, has no problem with getting a little mud on himself, laughing loudly when he slips and lands on his behind, Cesare immediately coming up to see whether he is alright and licking a broad tongue across his face.

Al can almost pretend that everything is back to normal. But then something strange and unexpected happens.

One moment, Elaine is giggling and squealing, and then she stumbles and falls, her bare knees skidding across the stone.

Al gasps, quickly running over to her, but Cesare is quicker, already nudging his head against her in a gesture of comfort.

“Ouch,” Elaine whimpers, steadfastly trying to keep in the tears, “It hurts.”

“Daddy,” Al calls over his shoulder, “I think we need a band-aid.”

There is no reaction. Al blinks and then tears his eyes away from Elaine's bloody knees, over to where daddy is standing, wide as a sheet, his pupils like pinpricks, narrow but unfocused.

“Daddy?” Al asks uncertainly. He has never seen daddy look like this and he doesn't know what to make of it.

“N-Nina,” daddy whispers.

Al doesn't know who Nina is. He doesn't know why daddy is so scared of her or for her. He only knows that daddy is scared and that his entire fear is condensed in that single name.

“Daddy,” Al tries again and reaches a hand toward him.

But daddy – and this is something that has never happened before – daddy flinches back. Flinches back and stumbles, catches himself, turns around and heaves, his eyes glued to the floor, forces himself to face forward, moves, one step, two, towards the backdoor, dragging himself inside as though his feet were something terribly heavy.

Alphonse remains behind, speechless. Then he hears Elaine sob behind him and he finds himself back in the second half of reality, the one where sometimes two people hurt and you have to makes a decision. But he settles on Elaine because at least he knows what's wrong with her and what to do about it. So he runs to get the first aid kit out of the bathroom and then scampers back into the garden.

Silent tears are running down her cheeks now and her lower lip is wobbling dangerously, but she refuses to make a sound. Al wonders whether she learned that from her mother.

He cleans the wounds and disinfects them, before carefully putting a number of crisscrossing band-aids over the scrapes. He'd just use one big one each, but he knows from experience that they'd just come off as soon as Elaine tried to move her legs.

Then he half-carries her back inside, setting her up on the couch with a big chocolate cookie and Cesare's head in her lap.

“Can you read me a story?” she asks and Al does, because he likes stories, too, and knows that they are good when you need to be distracted from your pain.

They spent another hour like this, and it would be nice and even fun, if Al's thoughts didn't keep drifting off to where daddy might be hiding and how he might be feeling.

Eventually, the doorbell rings and Al has never been so relieved to know that their play date was over.

“Hello again,” Al greets Evelyn when she steps in.

“Hello,” she replies, “Did you two have fun?”

“Kinda,” Al says and scratches the back of his head, putting on an apologetic smile, “Daddy had a bad headache. He had to lie down. And I'm afraid Elaine fell down and hurt herself. She can't walk very well.”

“I'm alright,” Elaine insists stubbornly, even though she can barely bend her knees.

“Oh dear,” Evelyn says, crouching down to examine her daughter, “Does it hurt?”

“Only a little,” Elaine claims, “Alphonse made it all better. He even put the band-aids on me.”

“A real doctor we have here,” Evelyn agrees, the tightness around her smile fading a little now that she knows Elaine isn't seriously injured, “So maybe we best head home so Doctor Alphonse can take of his other patient.”  
“Yes,” Elaine agrees, already putting the leash on Cesare and hanging on to him as she limps out of the door.

“Is your father alright?” Evelyn asks when she turns back to Al, “I know he said his head injury wasn't so bad, but if he had a concussion...”

“I think he'll be fine,” Al says reassuringly, “We just ran around a lot and the sun was out. Maybe that was a little bit too much.”

“No, I guess just meekly sitting around isn't quite his style,” she agrees, shaking her head a little, “In any case, thank him for me, will you? I really owe him a favor now.”

“Will do,” Al agrees and then waves them goodbye until the car disappears down the road. Then he finally dares to make his way upstairs.

He finds daddy lying face-down on his and father's bed. The curtains are still drawn and the room is dark. Al can't even tell whether daddy is breathing.

He wonders what exactly drew daddy to this room, whether it was instinct or convenience. He wonders whether the bed smells like father to him and whether he finds it comforting. He wonders whether daddy has been crying into the pillows, completely silent like Elaine, and whether he had someone teach him that or whether he had to learn for himself.

“Daddy?” he tries carefully, “Daddy, I took care of Elaine. She's alright now and Mrs. Fairchild came to pick her up.”

There's no reply. Tentatively, Al pulls himself up onto the bed, trying not to jostle daddy too much.

He purses his lips. “You're not alright, are you?”

Slowly, very slowly, daddy turns his head. He eyes are not on Al, though, just blankly staring ahead at the wall.  
“No,” he says listlessly, “I don't think I am.”

Something in Al curls up very tightly, trying to hide. He wishes father were here, but he isn't, and even if he were, he doesn't think daddy would like to speak to him. So Al has to handle this.

“You... weren't worried for Elaine, were you?” he asks, “When she got hurt, I mean.”

Vaguely, daddy shakes his head, but at least he is rolling over onto his side now. “No,” he says, “But... I knew a little girl once.”

“Nina,” Al prompts, hoping isn't too early.

“Nina,” Daddy agrees, “She was... four years old. Really adorable. She always called me big brother Edward.” Daddy laughs but it sounds like he is only doing it so he won't have to cry. “She... didn't have a mom, just like I didn't have a mom, so she was often lonely. Me an'... me and my brother often played with her and her dog Alexander.” A deep, shuddering breath as he curls his arms around himself. “But then, one day, Nina is gone. Only Alexander is there. And he is... all wrong.”

“What does that mean?”

“You see,” daddy says, and now he sounds like he sometimes does when he is imparting an important lesson, but much sadder and severe, “Her father was a state alchemist and he was... desperate and crazy. He specialized on hybrids.”

Al's eyes widen, his stomach turning, “He turned the dog into a chimera?”

“And- and Nina,” daddy adds and his pupils are blown wide now, tar pitches, inkwells. “He used Nina, too.”

For a moment, Al does not understand. For a moment, he is blissful and innocent and still thinks that no parent would ever hurt their child.

“No,” he whispers and he hurts for this girl he does not know. He swallows, and his mouth is dry but he still tastes the bile. “Could you... could you help her?”

“I... I tried to,” daddy says and that should be answer enough, but he still goes on, “There was... there were a lot of things happening back then that I had no control over, that I didn't fully understand. Nina was... she died. I couldn't save her.”

It must have been while daddy had still been in the military. When he got involved in terrible things that he rarely ever spoke about and certainly not to Al. Sometimes, he told grand stories of how he saved cities and apprehended criminals. But those stories were often funny and exaggerated, if not completely made up. Daddy had never had a good time handling the truth.

And Al wants to tell him that it was a long time ago, that all the danger is over now. But then he realizes that, for daddy, it isn't.

Daddy's mind thinks he is still a state alchemist. It thinks everything that happened to Nina and to his brother and his other friends was only a little while ago. It still thinks it ought to be small and sad and scared. Daddy hasn't just forgotten his memories, he has forgotten his healing, too. And now daddy hurts again and Al can't even comprehend how much hurt that must be.

“Daddy,” Al says, helplessly tugging at his sleeve, knowing not what else to offer, “Do you want a hug?”

It's a stupid question. Daddy always wants a hug from Al and, usually, it helps.

So they hold each other until daddy is breathing a little more easy and Al feels a little less like crying.

 

When Al hears someone come up the stairs, he goes to greet his father.

“Alphonse,” father says, already slipping out of his uniform jacket, “Where is your father?”

“Daddy is taking a nap,” Al tells him, “He wasn't feeling well.”

“Is it his head?” father asks, immediately on alert, “If he needs a doctor-”

“No,” Al shakes his head, “He... remembered someone named Nina.”

Father's eyes widen, so he must know what that particular story means to daddy. Of course he does. Sometimes Al thinks father knows daddy inside out.

When father reaches the top of the stairs, he runs an absent-minded hand through Al's hair and then moves further down the hallway.

“He's in your room,” Al says, watching as father comes to a halt in front of the door, “Do you want to talk to him?”

“No, no,” father says vaguely, “He should sleep, he needs... I doubt he wants to see me anyway. He always did blame me for this.”

Al has a notion that there are things he will never truly understand about his parents, and one thing is the way they talk about themselves. Daddy hides it, in front of Al, but father sometimes makes these little throwaway comments, as though he were confused that daddy would be with him.

Because you love each other, Al wants to say, but never dares to. Instead, he can only watch as father places his palm against the dark wood and lingers for a long, long moment.

 

Later that afternoon, when Al emerges from his own room to go to the toilet, he finds the door to father's study not quite closed, just as father is picking up the phone and dialing.

“Gracia. It's me,” he says, “No. No, there haven't been any changes yet, he's still... Yes. Apparently, his doctors are at a loss. There is nothing much that can be done. If the... if the brain tissue is damaged, then... He... won't really talk to me. I can't blame him. He's- for Heaven's sake, he is essentially sixteen years old. He is back to being that scrappy, defiant kid again and he- he doesn't remember me, much less _us_. How should I- I don't even know what to say. And then... there's Alphonse, of course.”

A long exhale, the weight of the world, and Al tries not to feel like a burden, just keeps eavesdropping.

“I think... Edward's been having flashbacks,” father continues, “Bad ones. There are a lot of things he never really worked through. He just... put it all aside and marched on. Now that things are quiet and he remembers more clearly, it's all coming back full force.”

There a longer pause as father listens to what Gracia has to say.

“Like a therapist, you mean? I doubt it. He won't just talk to a stranger and... half of what happened was either illegal or classified. Most of it doesn't seem real. Some of the things he's seen, even I can hardly believe. I think the therapist is more likely to need therapy afterwards.”

Another pause, most likely aunt Gracia gently chiding him.

“I know. I know,” father amends, “I guess it hasn't been very long yet, has it? But it feels like it. I try to tell myself that there's still hope, but... I'm just trying to be realistic. You know me, I'm a strategist. I like to be prepared for whatever scenario.”

He offers the telephone handle an empty smile, sightlessly gazing out the window. “Worst case? Worst case is, he doesn't remember. Worst case is, I have to let him go.”

Al presses a hand over his mouth to keep himself from gasping. Father can't possibly mean... Can he?

“I can't _force_ him to stay with me,” father insists and he sounds devastated by his own truth, “Not when it all began, and not this time around either. He has to decide for himself.”

Father takes a deep breath, centers himself. “I'm sorry. I'm... I don't want to burden you with this. I just didn't know who else to talk to. Yes. Thank you. I will, I promise I will. Give Elysia a kiss from me. You, too.”

And then father hangs up the phone.

Al's mind is racing. He has to do something. He cannot just let his parents split up. Three days ago they were having breakfast and everything was just fine. Three days ago the world was whole, Al's world was whole. It couldn't shatter now, just because father thought it was the right thing.

If father wasn't going to try to win daddy back, Alphonse would. Alphonse would make daddy remember!

He tiptoes back to his room then, doesn't stay long enough to witness father picking up the phone again.

“This is President Führer Mustang,” he says and his voice is that of the Führer once more, “I would like to speak to Ambassador Xiu.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I actually got this chapter done on time. I have so much stuff to do, but then I spent ALL of yesterday procrastinating and busting out about 25 pages for this 'verse. I finished most of this installment and spontaneously wrote an additional oneshot that will follow after this one, just because I thought of it while showering.  
> To give you a little teaser:
> 
>  
> 
> _“Hello,” the young man says and his voice quavers a little before he clears his throat, “Um. I don't know how to put this, but. I think I am the Führer's son.”_
> 
>  
> 
>  


	5. Alphonse II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That's so weird,” Al says, “I look more like uncle Alphonse than you.”

Al's parents had always taught him that it was important to maintain a balance between logic and emotion, that every action had a reaction, and that one should always keep the larger picture in mind.

So logically, Alphonse understands that sometimes parents have to get a divorce because they are unhappy or maybe fighting all the time. His friend Mika from school had been really relieved when her parents finally split, even though she didn't get to see her father very often anymore.

But emotionally, Al can only focus on the fact that his parents aren't unhappy at all. They are very much in love. It's just that daddy forgot.

What would happen if daddy and father broke up? Al would still be allowed to see father because father had legally adopted him, but he'd stay with daddy because daddy was his blood relative. But daddy didn't really remember him either. Not to mention that daddy wouldn't know how to work at the university anymore, so he would lose his job and have difficulties providing for Al. Then father would try to offer his support and daddy probably wouldn't like that much but he'd accept because of Al, but he'd also feel like he was now indebted to father.

Overall, it would turn into a very messy situation and everyone would be miserable. So, logically, Alphonse thinks, they might as well be miserable together and hope that everything worked out after all.

Therefore, there are three options to make this happen.

Number 1: Daddy never remembers, but they still stay together and kinda make do.

Number 2: Daddy does remember and all problems are solved.

Number 3: Daddy does not remember but ends up falling love with father all over again.

For now, Al decides, Number 1 would be the backup plan, Number 2 would be what he would go for, and if that did not work... well, he was confident he could somehow trigger Number 3.

Because if father himself was reluctant to talk to daddy, then Al would just have to show daddy why father was very much worthy of his love.

 

It's not difficult to find evidence of his parents' love story. After all, - and daddy liked to repeat that frequently and scathingly - father was a giant sap. But daddy was at least as much of a sap because he jealousy hoarded all of that same evidence.

He begins in daddy's study, pulling some of the books from the selves.

 _For Roy who believed in me_ , the dedication in daddy's dissertation reads, _And Al who always_ _questions whatever I say_.

Another has father's neat handwriting inked on the first page. _Happy 25_ _th_ _birthday. Three quarters of the century to go and I hope to spend them with you._

That one hurts a little bit right now, but Al sets it aside anyway.

There's so much more and Al begins to migrate through the house, collecting things left and right, the big wedding photograph from the hallway, the snapshots from their vacation in Riesembol when Al had been four, the notepad in the kitchen that is meant for grocery lists but has long since also been used for them to scribble silly messages to each other. There's father's old threadbare sweater that daddy likes to cuddle up in on cold evenings, and the record collection of their favorite songs.

Alphonse had never quite realized it because his parents had been together for as long as he could remember, but nine years was really a remarkably long time, wasn't it? There were so many fond memories. And so much for daddy to forget.

The doorbell startles Al out of his thoughts and he carefully sets aside the treasures he has accumulated so far to go answer the door. He can already see the familiar military blue through the window pane and then he finds himself looking up at Aunt Riza.

“Alphonse,” she says and Al realizes that she is not Aunt Riza now but General Hawkeye, “Where is your father?”

“I am here, Riza,” father says and he is already coming down the stairs, one hand on the banister.

Alphonse chews the inside of his cheek. Father addressing Aunt Riza with her first name when she is being General Hawkeye means that something is definitely up.

“I cannot believe you,” she says and her voice is tense and calm like the air before thunder, “Is it true that you just called the Xingese embassy? On private matters?”

“Riza, you have to understand,” father tries to placate her, lifting his hand.

“Oh?” she cocks an eyebrow, “Understand why, in a politically extremely precarious situation, you would make a move as risky and thoughtless as personally calling Ambassador Xiu and arranging an immediate meeting with her? You of all people should know what kind of message that will send.”

“Riza, please,” Roy father says and his mouth is open to say something else, but then his gaze cuts over to Alphonse. “Let's take this to headquarters,” he tells her instead and grabs his coat.

“I'll be waiting in the car,” she replies crisply and turns around on her heel, marching back outside.

Father sighs but already moves to follow her.

“Father,” Al says and then doesn't quite know how to continue, “... is everything alright?”

Father doesn't seem to know how to reply either.

“It will be,” he says at length, and then adds, “Take care of your father.”

 

Daddy finally emerges from the bedroom looking not quite like himself but at least a little less like a ghost.

“Are you feeling better?” Al asks, wondering whether the good things that have happened to daddy really make up for the bad parts.

Daddy looks at him as though he were waking from a dream and still struggling to differentiate between realities.

“Yeah,” he says eventually, his voice slightly croaky, “Yeah, sure.”

Alphonse purses his lips.

It's not the first time he had caught daddy looking at him like that. But usually, he catches himself, usually he is distracted by a soft word from father, usually he just reaches out to pat Al's head and then moves on.

But the amnesia seems to have unveiled something in daddy's eyes, something he must have kept buried and hidden before. But now it's all there and the curtain can't be drawn back over it.

Al still cannot figure out what it might be.

“Are you hungry?” he asks instead but can already tell by the look of nausea on daddy's face that it's a silly question.

“Nah,” daddy says, grinning crookedly, “You got any ideas how to entertain ourselves?”

Al hesitates. “Uh,” he says, wringing his hands, “So your doctor said to try and look at things that hold meaning to you, right?”  
“Yeah?” daddy says reluctantly.

“I looked through some stuff that might help your remember,” Al explains, hope in his voice, “So if you want to, we can...”

Al gets the feeling that daddy doesn't really want to, that he is just doing this for Al's sake. But right now, that doesn't matter. Not as long as it works in the end.

“Sure,” daddy agrees with a roll of his shoulders and this time the look of nausea stays.

 

They huddle up on the floor in daddy's study and it feels like they are playing a very strange sort of game, a game that would be fun under normal circumstances but that is now made bitter by what depends on the outcome.

And daddy... daddy does not quite play by the rules.

Alphonse hands him the dissertation, and instead of focusing on the dedication he gets sidetracked by wanting to at least sneak a peek at his thesis statement. Al shows him the pictures of their vacation in Riesembol and daddy starts to comment on the trees that are missing from the background or new houses that had been built.

He skirts around the issue of his marriage as though he thought that, if he only ignored it hard enough, it would disappear all by itself.

Finally, Al has had enough.

“Daddy,” he asks tentatively, “I understand that you are confused because you don't remember falling in love with father. But at least you still know him. Why... why are you okay with me if you barely even remember that I exist?”

A stricken look crosses daddy's face.

“Because,” he says eventually and reaches out to pat Al's head as he had always done, “I can tell that you are a good kid.”

It's not much of an answer. And what's more it feels like... not like a lie maybe, but as though daddy were hiding something and doing a very poor job of it.

Daddy himself must realize this, too, because he awkwardly clears his throat.

“So,” he says, “Winry mentioned something about teacher leaving me a letter. Do you know-”

“You keep everything important in a casket in your desk,” Al knows. Daddy has never let him see the insides of the casket, and Al has always respected the fact that it was off-limits. But daddy did not remember that now, and maybe Al might get lucky and catch a glimpse of some secrets.

Both the drawer and the casket are unlocked, and daddy lifts the lid with a hesitance that borders on reverence.

Al tries not to be too nosy, doesn't look too closely in case there is anything he really isn't supposed to see.

The biggest item is what must be a photo album and daddy folds open the very first page.

“Huh,” he says, “A present from Winry for my seventeeth birthday.”

At once, Al perks up. “That's good!” he insists, “That was only a little while after what you still remember, right? Maybe you need to start at the beginning and work your way up.”

“Hmm,” Daddy hums and then looks at the pictures. Immediately, his eyes begin to swim, and he seems surprised by his reaction.

“Oh,” he says simply, his flesh coming up to run over one of the photographs.

Finally, Al's curiosity gets the better of him, leaning closer to glance over daddy's shoulder.

“That's grandma, right?” he asks, “And you and uncle Alphonse?”

Daddy just gives a mute nod, accompanied by a little sniffle.

Alphonse cannot image how horrible it must be to lose all of your family like daddy had. That's why it is so important that daddy remembered how he had gained a family of his own.

Daddy keeps turning the pages, one by one, and there are other people there, granny Pinako looking a bit younger, Aunt Winry as a little girl.

“That's so weird,” Al says, “I look more like uncle Alphonse than you.”

Daddy only nods again and Al has to remind himself that, from daddy's point of view, uncle Alphonse had only died a little while ago. He was probably still grieving.

Other pictures and there is a daddy's automail now, as well a someone walking around in a suit of armor.

“Who's that?” Alphonse asks, pointing his finger.

“That's my brother,” daddy says, “He hit a growth spurt. And his face was weird so he tried to hide.”

There's a hint of sadness and a hint of humor and Al doesn't quite know what to make of it.

“Do you think my face will get weird, too?” he worries aloud.

“Probably,” daddy says loftily, but he is definitely joking now.

“He must've been a lot bigger than you,” Al remarks in revenge.

“Yeah,” daddy agrees, “Yeah, he was.”

There's another picture daddy lingers on, and that one Al can now identify without even knowing the faces. Nina and her dog Alexander, whole and happy and healthy.

Daddy lets out a quiet exhale and moves on.

There are more pictures of daddy growing from a boy into a young man, often accompanied by uncle Alphonse, as well as Gracia and Elysia, so Al suspects that these photos must have been taken by Father's best friend who also died a long time ago.

It took Al a while to to really understand the finality of death, the inevitability of it. Izumi had died two years ago and sometimes Al still thought she would just be there when they went to visit Sig. Does that ever fully go away? Does father still turn around with a joke on his lips, only to remember that Maes is no longer there? Does daddy wake up in the morning, confused why uncle Alphonse is there as a little kid, even though it's Al standing by his bedside?

“Oh,” Al marvels when daddy turns another page, “That's me.”

He's seen plenty of baby pictures of himself, but right now daddy hasn't and he appears rooted to the spot by the image of his younger self gazing down at the slumbering infant in his arms.

“You're so tiny,” daddy whispers, tilting his head to the side as though that would change anything about the bizarre image. It doesn't, of course. But with each page, each picture Al grows a little bit, more hair, more teeth, more bright-eyed wonder. And daddy, too, seems to grow, broader in the shoulders, his head less bowed.

In the photo album, Al realizes, daddy slowly begins to look happy, even though he hadn't before. And that is also the time father really starts showing up as well, Al on his shoulders, daddy in his arm.

Quickly, daddy fumbles ahead in the pages, only to make a number of lose photographs slip out of the back. Al catches a glimpse of blurry outlines, lots of skin, but then daddy is already yelping, hiding the pictures under his palms and quickly stuffing the photos back where they came from and then shoving the album into the drawer which had previously held the casket.

Al doesn't even bother to ask, knowing he would only get an unsatisfactory reply.

Instead, he spies the letter that Izumi left for daddy. Al knows because he has a similar one hidden away in his own treasure trove.

But daddy is frowning now, coming up with an entire stack of other letters in fine envelopes, wrapped up with a blue ribbon.

“What are these?” he mumbles to himself but Al sneaks a quick look at the front.

“Father writes you whenever he has to travel,” he explains, leaning back on his hands.

“Huh,” Ed flips them over in his hand as though the back offered a better explanation, “Why?”  
Al blinks.

“Daddy,” he says imploringly, “I think those are love letters.”

Daddy blushes, even more so than at the weird photographs from before.

“Wh-what?” he stammers and quickly shuffles the letters back into the casket as though touching them suddenly burned. There's also a heavy blush on his cheeks like the mere notion of him receiving love letters from his husband were unfathomable.

Al has to remind himself that, for all intents and purposes, daddy's mind is as he must have been at sixteen. Maybe he doesn't even remember his first kiss. Or maybe... maybe he still remembers Al's mother. Maybe he was in love with her and misses her and doesn't understand why he would be married to father now.

Alphonse bites his tongue but he still cannot stop himself from asking.

“Is this... is this because of my mother?”

Daddy freezes.

“What?” he asks and it's barely more than a breath, his face suddenly very very pale.

“My biological mother,” Al elaborates, “You've never really told me about her, but... do you remember her now? You... you're not still in love with her, are you?”

Alphonse doesn't miss his mother because he had never known her. He doesn't want her in his life because she wanted wanted him in hers. She had been young, like daddy, and she had not been ready for a child.

Daddy hadn't been either, but he had tried anyway.

Al doesn't need a mother, not if he has daddy, and if daddy has father. That's how it had worked between them.

Father had been Al's father long before he as signed the papers for the adoption, just like he had been daddy's husband long before they got married.

But - and daddy had told him this when Al had complained about how little father was home during the elections – Al had had father before Ed really had Roy. For the both of them, Al would always come first.

“That's not-,” daddy begins and seems to fight with himself, “It's more complicated than that. But. It's doesn't matter. It's all in the past anyway, right?”  
He says it almost jokingly, like his amnesia were something they could just laugh away, as if all his pain would just go away if he ignored it for long enough.

“It's alright to be sad, daddy,” Al tells him, “And it's alright to cry, too.”

He says it for daddy's sake but also for his own because he kind of feels like crying right now.

Daddy must be able to tell because he is still essentially daddy and he knows Al instinctively, so he just closes his arms around Al and pulls him in, damply breathes against the crown of his head, wordless comfort.

It's a fierce embrace and a warm one, the kind that makes Al feel safe and protected, and for a few moments he allows himself to just breathe in the familiar scent of daddy's hair and automail oil.

Just as Al's eyes are about to flutter closed, however, he glances over daddy's flesh shoulder and catches sight of father standing in the threshold, the hallway dark behind him. He must have been gone for a couple of hours, but Al had not heard him come home.

Father, in turn, does not realize that Al has noticed him. His eyes are hooded as he watches them, his uniform slightly rumpled. He wipes a hand over his mouth and then steps back into the shadows, leaving them alone.

Suddenly, Al is gripped by a very tight, very real fear.

Al knows that daddy's father had had to leave the family at some point and that he had always resented him for that. Daddy wasn't going to break them apart like that, was he?

AndAl had grown up hearing many stories about how father and daddy had always been fighting. But daddy always seemed to fight with pretty much everyone. With aunt Winry, and granny Pinako, and Russel, and his colleagues, and the occasional journalist.

But what if... what if daddy only knew how to fight with father now? What if he couldn't re-learn how to love him?

The Pangaea of their world has already been broken, split, separated. They are standing on different continents, a vast ocean between them and neither knows how to swim, while Al can only watch them drift further apart.

“Are you...,” Al begins hesitantly, pulling back to look at daddy, and he has to swallow before he is able to continue in a small worried voice, “Are you and father going to get a divorce now?”

There is a plethora of emotions whizzing across daddy's face then. Surprise, sadness, shock, fear so quickly Al can barely catch it, desperation, resignation. Resolution.

Daddy reaches out, pulling him up against his chest once more.

“No,” he whispers into Al's hair as he cradles him close, “No, we're not.”

And Al should feel reassured at that but, somehow, he cannot help but think that he has made everything worse.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is my favorite because I looove writing from Roy's POV and I haven't done so in a while. Also, there will be fluff and angst and a lot of the good stuff.


	6. Roy I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ten years, Edward. We've been living together for almost ten years. You can't fake that. You can't catch up to that. There's just too much-”

It's late when Riza lets him return home, after fifteen minutes of chewing him out in the car, followed by several hours of doing general damage control. And Roy had felt awful about it, had accepted all the blame as his due, but he had not regretted it. If there was only a slim chance that by tomorrow evening everything could be alright again, then he had to take it. If he had put the entirety of Amestris and potentially several other countries at risk, then maybe he wasn't cut out to be Führer. Or maybe he was. After all, blood and selfishness had always been intertwined with that damned title.

But no matter of what disaster he might have brought upon them all, it was worth his attempt of trying to stitch his life back together.

Roy had never thought that, one day, he would have to watch Ed and Al interact and feel sick to his stomach. But here he is, once more at the fringes of the world Edward has build around them, walls transparent like glass yet solid like diamond.

It's a flashback to the early days of their relationship or, even worse, to when the Elrics had just moved in with him, when Edward had been circumspect of every move he made, and Roy feels like a stranger in his own home, an intruder on his family.

Even now as night is falling outside and the only source of light is the reading lamp in the living-room, he is sitting by the gramophone, playing the [same piece](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TJcoaIeH3GI) over and over again. Just before it ends, he picks up the needle and lets it start anew. An infinite loop.

It's the waltz they had danced to at their wedding. It holds so much meaning for Roy but Ed won't even remember it.

His other hand is holding on to one of the letters Edward had written to him when Roy had been visiting Xing last year and making nice with the emperor. It's a guilty memento because while Roy prided himself for having a way with words and knowing when to use them, Ed was always terribly embarrassed about the vulnerabilities he exposed when he was writing himself.

Love letters, Roy called them, or longing prose. Fact, Edward countered, A reminder in case you forget.

Only that Edward was the one who had forgotten and Roy was left to read and remember, the paper turning greasy, gray under his fingertips.

_Our bed is so empty without you, why do we even have such a big bed when you are not here, it doesn't make any sense. I try to distract myself with alchemy and with chores, but it doesn't do any good. Today, I took Al to a guest lecture at the university. It was pretty good, but I'm still too awake, I can't fall asleep without you. Seventeen years, and I managed to sleep just fine. Why did you have to get me addicted to your touch, to your smell. I want nothing more than to bury my face against your neck and just breathe you in. I've got my hands on me now, but it's not the same. You're so much better than I could ever hope to be, you've ruined solitude for me. I want to kiss, I want to fuck, I want to reach out at night and feel you there. Why did I allow you to become Führer, you should just stay at home all the time, I want you between my thighs in whatever manner possible, I want your hand in my hair, your tongue in my mouth, I want your cock-_

Roy startles out of his reminiscing reverie when he hears heavy footsteps on the carpet in the hallway. A moment later, Ed has stomped into the room, making a beeline for him.

“Edward,” Roy greets, trying not to sound too familiar, “Is Al already in bed?”

But Ed does not answer. Ed puts his automail hand to Roy's collar to keep him in place and then bends down to forcefully kiss him on the mouth.

For a short moment, Roy dares to hope. Then reality catches up with him.

Because the way Edward kisses him is wrong. Something vital is missing, something integral, and Roy cannot even pinpoint it, cannot put a name on it, but-

Ed pulls back and Roy looks up at him with wide eyes.

“Do you... do you remember me?” he asks cautiously and only a small part of him desperately tries to deny that he already knows the answer.

The look on Ed's face is wrong, too, then, too young, too open and too guarded at the same time. Edward has barbed wire in his gaze and he seems to think it might pass for love.

“No,” he admits, hand dropping from where it had been touching Roy, “But... but I promise I'll make this work. I can- Al deserves a family. I owe him that much, right?”

A glacier closes up in Roy's chest. He pushes up from the armchair, pushes Ed away, paces through the room.

“You're doing this out of a sense of duty?” he demands scathingly, “Why, thank you for so graciously sacrificing yourself for the greater good. Now, if you'd please spread your legs and think of the motherland while I fuck you?”

He bites his tongue the moment he sees Edward flinch back.

“I'm sorry,” he hurries to say, shaking his head at himself and his own callous words, “I just...”

He trails off, takes a deep breath.

“Ten years, Edward. We've been living together for almost ten years. You can't fake that. You can't catch up to that. There's just too much-”

And he crumbles, buries his face in his hands.

When was the last time he felt so distraught? When Maes had been murdered maybe? But back then there had at least been an enemy he could fight, a goal he could work toward. Now he has nothing, just a blank piece of paper in Ed's head where there used to be a whole library.

“I love you,” he says because he hasn't yet and, if there is only one thing he may write down on that page, it ought to be this, “I love you, I love you as you loved me, and I can barely think knowing that you no longer do.”

Ed is staring at him, and the barbed wire is turning into brambles now, still thorny but delicate.

“I could try,” he promises, “I'll make up for it, I swear, I just... give me some time.”

But Roy shakes his head.

“Even if you did,” he knows, “You would never remember anything that happened before. You wouldn't know about the mauled chicken or the time Al caught the measles or why there are words scratched into my engagement ring. And I could tell you all the details, but you still wouldn't _know_. You wouldn't be the same person. And I love you but you are not my husband.”

And this is the truth he had been fighting to ignore, that one crucial fact that would destroy everything. Yes, Edward was still Edward, and to an extend he was still Alphonse's Edward. But he was no longer Roy's.

There's a certain irony to that. That Al's life had been reset to zero and that, somehow, something beautiful had grown from that, while now something similar had happened to Ed and destroyed that same beautiful thing. Sometimes, Roy truly hated alchemy and everything that went wrong with it.

“I'm giving this a chance!” Ed snaps, “The least you could do is try and do the same.”

“Give what a chance?” Roy counters, “The possibility that you might one day end up suffering from some sort of capture-bonding and tell yourself that you actually want to be here?”

“Well, isn't that just what happened the first time around?!”

Roy is seething. He had forgotten how mad teenage Ed had made him sometimes. It was like the boy didn't even hear himself talking.

“I have literally just told you that I will not hold you here,” he growls, “So don't act like I have ever forced you into anything you did not want.”

It's the first time Roy had raised his voice at him since this whole mess began and maybe it is what Ed had needed because he immediately looks more contrite, more self-aware. He had had a habit of being thoughtlessly callous at times, hadn't he?

“But... we always used to fight,” he reminds Roy, “Hell, we're doing it right now. Are we the couple that has screaming matches all the time?”

Roy takes a breath, exhales his rage.

“We fight surprisingly little, actually,” he says, “Especially not about stuff that matters. And when we do, we always find a solution together.”

Ed still does not look convinced and Roy reminds himself that the only examples Ed had for marriages where the blissful relationships of the Hughes and the Curtises, and his own mother pining after his father.

“Edward,” Roy says, “A relationship is not weakened by disagreements. On the contrary. When you work towards a common goal, you always end up stronger together.”

“Tell me then,” Ed demands and Roy frowns.

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me about us,” Ed insists, making a point of throwing himself down on the sofa, “Tell me how everything started.”

“I-,” Roy stammers, rather caught off guard by that request. “If you want me to, of course,” he agrees, but still has to think for a moment, “I'm not sure what you wish to hear, though. There was no... no big revelation, really. There were so many firsts and we just... we slipped into it, I guess.”

“So it was convenient,” Ed concludes.

“Heavens, no, that's the last word I would use,” Roy gives a dry chuckle, lowering himself onto the sofa as well, even as he maintains a respectful distance, “It was... comfortable. Not as in unexciting or anything, but. Closeness breeds familiarity. At some point, we were drawn to each other.”

“Then... who made the first move?”

“You did, actually,” Roy remembers with a smile, “Though I don't think you really planned on it. I came back from an impromptu field mission and you were seething with worry. First you yelled at me and then you kissed me, without a warning. I had no idea how to handle that.”

“Huh,” Ed looks surprised but he doesn't object, “So. What, uh, what made me... fall for you?”

Roy thinks for a moment. “You know,” he says, “I don't think you ever told me that.”

He can tell that Edward is getting suspicious again, so he quickly continues. “I don't think there is just one specific thing that makes anyone fall in love. I mean, I'm pretty sure you love me for bringing you breakfast to bed, but that is just a tiny aspect.”

He runs loving fingers over his engagement ring where, two years ago, a kidnapped Ed had scratched an ungainly _I LOVE YOU_ into the gold. “But I think...,” he muses, “I think the catalyst was that I loved Al.”

“Huh?”

“I was really quite besotted with him early on,” Roy elaborates, “And the longer the two of you stayed with me the harder I fell. I... started thinking of myself as his other parent. And I was so scared of the thought that, at some point, you would leave me behind. So. I think you loved me for loving whom you loved most.”

There is no answer from Ed. When Roy looks up, he finds him staring at him, riveted.

“That, uh,” Ed says, “That kinda does make sense, yeah.”

Roy smiles, “Love was always a thing of logic for you.”

“Yeah, well, I just read some your love letters, so don't go pointing fingers,” Ed snipes but then he is self-consciously picking at the seams of his sleeve, “You said eight years so I was...”

“Seventeen,” Roy supplies, though Edward has obviously already done the math.

“And the public was okay with that?”

“I won't say that we didn't have opposition,” Roy admits, “Every politician has. But... we make a good team. Whenever we make an appearance in public, people cheer for us. Whenever you happen to be short with the press, you make up for it with how obviously you love Alphonse. You have established your own career, and therefore have contacts and influence outside of the military. Your students and colleagues live in fear and adoration of you.”

He stops for a moment, considers what would be most meaningful to a sixteen-year-old Edward. “You are an honorary ambassador for our Ishvalan relations, and you and Rosé have made an effort to support Liore. And you are only twenty-five; there is still so much more you can do. I know you... you often regret the things that have gone wrong but, Edward, you have done your best to make up for it.”

Edward seems thoughtful then, and surprised, and confused, and as though he were hoping against hope.

You are not Fullmetal anymore, Roy thinks, You don't have to be strong and steel.

Suddenly, the scratching of the gramophone reminds Roy that the record had run its course, the music nothing but a pleasant background noise to their conversation. Out of habit, Roy reaches out and sets the needle back on track, waiting for it to pick up the melody again.

“There,” he says, when the [lullaby](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pREtP6YRMR8) starts playing, “You like this one.”

Ed startles, eyes wide, “How did you-”

“You told me your mother used to sing it to you,” Roy explains, “And then you started singing it to Alphonse.”

So they wait, in reverence, listening to the melody spill itself into the silence between them, filling the gaps. When it is over, Roy swallows, anticipating with bated breath for the next piece to start. He really ought to reach out and change the track, but he cannot bring himself to do so.

“Hm,” Ed relaxes back against the cushion, his eyes blinking a little sleepily, “Is that the same composer?”

“Yes,” Roy replies, weighs his next words against the fragile balance they have established in this moment, decides to take the risk, “Our wedding waltz.”

A furrow appears between Ed's eyes and then they snap open.

“We _waltzed_??” he demands, incredulous.

Roy cannot help but smirk, “We did. I taught you. You enjoyed it.”

“I did not.”

“You did, you did,” Roy insists, “We did all the tricks and the twirls and-”

“You ass,” Ed jerks upright and immediately starts beating him with one of the cushions, “You're taking the piss.”

Roy cannot help it. He laughs. Getting hit over the head and with Ed railing at him, he cannot help but laugh, for the first time in days.

That, finally, makes Ed stop, lowering the cushion to his lap and angrily glaring up at Roy. His hair is disheveled and his cheeks reddened, that familiar shine to his eyes, and Roy tires to recall the last the last time he had to stop himself from kissing Ed.

He thinks of the day of his election when he and Ed had been supposed to pose for official pictures, with stiff smiles and proper decorum. But Roy had just grabbed and kissed him instead, soundly, thoroughly, in front of all the press, in front of his rivals Messerschmitt and Fairchild.

He did it because he was Führer and no one could tell him otherwise, not even Riza who didn't even bother to scold him afterwards. He did it because he was so elated about years and years of hard labor and well-timed finesse finally coming to fruition. He did it because while they were standing on the balcony overseeing the courtyard the sun had hit Edward's eyes just right and there was still that fire in them that had already been there the first time Roy ever laid eyes on him.

And he had wondered where he would have ended up if he had never met that brilliant boy, whether he would be up on that balcony or maybe six feet under.

That night, after the celebrations had been over and Al long since been sent home with an exasperated Havoc to babysit because they didn't trust anyone else, they had sneaked into Roy's new office, the Führer's officer, and with the moonlight streaming through the broad windows they had fucked in the leather chair and across the heavy oaken desk, and it had been like exorcising all the demons that still lingered in that room.

The memory is a little too fond, leaves him a little too flustered, and Ed must read it on his face, scrutinizes him.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, eyes narrowed.

“Ah,” Roy chuckles, “You are too young for the truth.”

Indignation flashes across Edward's face and then he throws himself at Roy, renewing his onslaught with the cushion, letting out a stream of half-muffled curses. This time, Roy fights back and they wrestle for the cushion, knocking against the coffee table, letting out intermittent grunts.

Eventually, the cushion just falls to the floor, forgotten, and Ed is clawing at Roy's wrists while Roy rubs his knuckles against Ed's scalp, messing up his hair even more. The heat between them is palpable, panted breaths huffed into the space between them, and this is still the person who Roy fell in love with.

“You... you always look at me like that,” Ed says suddenly and he sounds vaguely lost.

“Like what?” Roy asks. The moment feels as though it had been dipped in honey, slow and smooth and golden.

“I don't know,” Ed says, shrugging, but his gaze drops down to Roy's lips, involuntarily, instinctively, “I don't...”

And following that same instinct, Roy's hand comes up to cup the vulnerable back of Ed's neck, skin on skin, leaning in.

“I guess,” he says, “This is what I look like when I think of kissing you.”

A small sound hitches out of Ed, but he does not pull back. Brazen, Roy continues.

“You prefer... a series of smaller kisses,” he explains intimately, “More teeth than tongue. And... I like to tangle my fingers in your hair, rub the back of your neck with my thumb.”

He does that now, that last part, soothing circles against Ed's pulse, but he does not actually kiss him, just brushes their noses against each other until Ed's eyes flutter closed. His breath is turning a little unsteady, too, but it feels less like fear then and more like anticipation.

“Are you- are you going to- um,” Ed stammers out, the adequate vocabulary absent from his mind.

“No,” Roy says, gently shaking his head, “No, I won't.”

“Why not?” Ed asks and Roy sighs a little because Edward Elric always needed answers.

“Edward,” Roy says, swears, “I love you. With all of my heart and my entire being. I want to be selfish and make you fall in love with me once more. But... this is not something I can force you into.”

“It's not... it's not forcing,” Ed insists stubbornly.

“Right now, though, it seems like a necessity to you,” Roy tells him, “You think this is the only option there is.”

“Yeah?” Ed sounds slightly more belligerent again, “Well, what else is there?”

“I will not... I will not hold you here,” Roy tells him, “If you wish to go to Dublith or Riesembol, you do that. You could move back to East City. We lived there for the first few years. Gracia would welcome you.”

“So what, you want me to move out that badly?”

“Above all, I want you to be happy,” Roy says, “Whether that is here with me or... somewhere else with... someone else, then...”

“Stop- stop being such a tragic bastard,” Ed hisses, “You are talking like I already signed the papers for the divorce. It's been three days. So what if my head isn't on right? Maybe I'll get better. Don't just throw away our chances.”

Oh, Roy realizes. Oh. How could he have forgotten? This is Edward Elric after all. Edward Elric chases chances to the ends of the world, no matter how infinitesimal, how ephemeral. Edward Elric is no quitter.

So Roy nods. “Alright,” he says, lost in the bliss of a hopeful smile, “Alright.”

It's not all right, of course. It's still messed up and miserable and the worst thing he never dared to imagine.

But. But Ed and Al are here. They are still together. And so, in that manner, it is alright after all.

And, he reminds himself, there is yet another speck of hope still left.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Roy mentions capture-bonding, that's just an alternative term used for Stockholm syndrome. I just needed a way to circumvent the conundrum of mentioning an actual town in the fma canon 'verse where Sweden is not a thing.
> 
> I really love this chapter. Describing Ed and RoyEd from Roy's POV is just always so satisfying because I get away with him being a total sap. :)


	7. Edward IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed doesn't think he has every felt wanted.

Edward taps down the stairs, one hand on the banister, still replaying the odd turn the previous night had taken.

He had promised Al to not let his farce of a marriage go to shit, had helped Al get ready for bed, and then bulldozed his way into Mustang's personal space.

He had hoped for Mustang to just take him, just accept what little Ed could offer, but things hadn't quite gone according to plan. Roy Mustang was unpredictable, now more so than ever before. He did not want Ed's reluctant cooperation as when he had first recruited Ed. He wanted Ed, wholly and willingly. He wanted a husband and not a hostage, and Ed was slowly starting to figure out what the difference was.

Downstairs, Al and Mustang are already awake and their laughter rivets off the walls. By the smell of it, they must be making pancakes together.

“Are you feeling better, father?” Al asks suddenly and there is a long moment of silence.

“Yes,” Mustang replies at length, “I guess I am.”

“That's good,” Al decides and when Ed peeks around the threshold he can see that Mustang has picked Al up and is carrying him around, Al's arms locked behind his neck. Because Al is not just a kid now. He's not just Ed's child. He is Ed and Mustang's son. Mustang loves Al and Al loves Mustang and, somehow, Ed ought to fit in there as well.

Mustang gives little grunt as he adjust Al's weight.

“You're getting too big for that,” he complains, though he makes no indication of planning to set the boy down.

“You're just getting old,” Al counters easily and Mustang splutters.

Ed cannot help but laugh and the sound of it triggers two surprised faces turning toward him.

“Daddy,” Al smiles, sliding out of Mustang's arms and to the floor.

“Good morning, Edward,” Mustang greets warmly, one hand reaching for the spatula to turn the pancakes over.

“Good morning,” Ed says, shuffling on the spot, before making his way to the breakfast table and sinking down on a chair.

Roy, he tries in his head, trying to get it to feel more comfortable. Roy Roy Roy.

This could be his family, he thinks. This could be his every morning. This could be the rest of his life – peace and calm and sleep-tinted smiles.

It's not an easy thought. It still does not quite seem real to him, but it's becoming more and more tangible.

Yesterday evening, Roy had not been wearing his uniform but comfortable slacks and a knitted sweater. He had looked so... approachable. So warm. Him sitting by the fire place had reminded Ed that flames did not always have to burn and destroy.

And yet – and Ed's mind stumbles a little over that thought, tricky and treacherous as it is – there is also the other side of the man. The mature and experienced and sexual one.

Roy Mustang had always seemed like such a flirt, and now Ed knows firsthand what it feels like to have that intensity entirely focused on him.

With heat in his cheeks, he remembers the almost pornographic pictures he had found in the photo album, barely managing to keep them from Al's curious eyes. He hadn't even gotten a closer look himself, but it had been enough to fuel the twisting in his guts for quite a while.

There had been one of him, naked and on his belly, sprawled on the sheets of a bed, with Roy's stupid, stupid gloved hand just there at the small of Ed's back, while Ed had glanced back over his shoulder, coy and downright seductive, temptation in his eyes and a challenging smirk on his lips.

Ed hadn't known that he could be... that. That he could look at a picture of himself and not just think short and scarred and stunted, that he could see bronze skin instead of only automail, that a man like Roy would look at him, keep looking, never stop looking, as though Ed were an array, an enigma, a miracle.

Ed doesn't think he has every felt wanted.

He knows that, all his life, he has been a burden to people. To his mother when his father left them. To granny Pinako when she took them in. To Izumi when he bullied her into taking them on as apprentices.

He'd been a burden to Roy Mustang, too, when the man had first recruited him and when Ed had kept fucking shit up, on purpose or otherwise. And then Ed goes and gets his little brother transfigured a-fucking-gain and becomes an even greater burden to the man.

Only... Roy doesn't seem to think of him as a burden, nor as an asset or a prize. Rather, a peer. A partner in all things.

Equivalent exchange, he thinks, and maybe that's not quite what love is all about, but a marriage might be. The question is whether Ed is able to take what Roy would like to give.

He doesn't know whether he had wanted Roy to kiss him yesterday. Probably not. Probably... that was still too early.

But. He had enjoyed the possibility. The choice. The idea of leaning in and... having something.

Is this what he had gotten in exchange for performing human transmutation once more? Trading one tragedy for years of bliss? Giving up his brother to gain a husband and a son instead? Was that how life worked?

Helplessly, he wonders what Al would say. His brother Al who was always so thoughtful and considerate and patient, who seemed to know what Ed was feeling before Ed had even started to really feel it himself.

For a reckless second, he toys with the idea of telling little Al everything. Cards on the table, I'm not your father, but I fucked up your life, seems to run in the family; by the way, do you blame me now, would you have blamed me back then?

Ed doesn't have to wonder whether in the past ten years he had had that same dispute with himself more than once, because how could he not? Roy had said that, at some point, they were planning to tell Al the truth. But it was impossible to gauge the right moment for such a wrong thing.

For now, though, that's not one of Ed's problems. Even if he kind of wants Al to know, he is aware that it's not his place. If the other Ed, the one who thought of himself as Al's father, had decided against it so far, then Ed shouldn't interfere.

It's surprisingly easy to reach that conclusion. Logically. Logically, Ed knows that this little boy would never be his brother again, no matter how much he might wish it.

In their essence, they are similar, but Ed has already noticed the subtle differences between his brother and this Al. For one, little Al is quite obviously an only-child. He cares for others and likes to share, but he is still used to getting his way, to being the center of his parents' universe.

Back when they were children, it had not been all that different. Ed had orbited Al like the moon going round the Earth, Winry had crashed into Ed like meteor shower, and Al had been at the center of it all, steady and reliable. Al had been a planet filled with water and air, while Ed had been nothing but a dead rock in the sky, barren and uninhabitable, forever trailing after him.

But now Ed is his parent. Ed has to nurture and teach and protect and love in ways that are so much grander than he could ever have imagined. But he had a great teacher. He had his mother.

No, Ed thinks, he can get used to family, even if it might take him a long long time. Even if some things still throw him completely.

Such as when Al now accidentally knocks over his glass of milk, the horrible spawn of hell spilling itself across the table in a gruesome puddle of white.

“Fuck,” Al says, already jumping up to grab a dishtowel and mop up the mess.

Ed's mouth falls open. “What did you just say?”

There is a tender blush on Al's cheeks but it is overpowered by his pout.

“Fuck,” he repeats petulantly and Ed flounders.

“He _is_ your son,” Roy points out, casually flipping a page in his newspaper, “I always told you to watch your language, but you never listen.”

Ed still cannot help but stare. He has never once heard Al swear, apart from a vaguely upset 'crap' muttered under his breath every now and then. Mom and teacher had always been very adamant about not swearing. Al had adhered to the rules, and Ed had broken them as was his nature.

And here is Al, this tiny little kid, doling out a 'fuck' over something as minor as the proverbial spilled milk.

Ed's jaw works silently, no words coming out. Finally, he turns towards Roy.

“Aren't you gonna say anything??” he demands incredulously.

Roy just shrugs, “Monkey see, monkey do. I actually think 'fuck' was among the first handful of words he ever spoke. When he was two, he was swearing like a sailor. You thought he was a riot but I sat him down and told him to not swear in polite company. So he only does it in front of us now.”  
Al nods in agreement, looking completely unapologetic and throwing the damp towel into the sink.

“That- I-,” Ed stammers, but even he can't deny the fact that it does sound like a likely story. Despite his mortification, however, there is a sudden burst of warmth in his chest. He is not a meek and complacent trophy of a husband. He is still himself, vulgar and imperfect and always a little too loud. And he had found people who loved him for it.

There's a kind of peace in that, a gentle reassurance.

He takes a deep breath, centers himself, and then leans back in his chair. He can do this.

“So, what are we doing today?” he asks, a slanted grin on his face, “Lazy Sunday in?”

“Not quite,” Roy tells him, “We are meeting with the Xingese ambassador.”

Ed tries not to pull a face. He had hoped to spent a little more time with Al and Roy, try to get a feel of them together, as they apparently were meant to be.

“Working on a Sunday, huh?” he asks wryly, “The Führer never rests.”

“Oh no,” Roy shakes his head, “It's not a business meeting, per se. Rather, this is about you.”

Ed frowns, “About me?”

“Yes,” Roy gives a muted smile, “What do you know about alkahestry?”

 

The Xingese embassy is huge and lavish and colorful, and Ed cannot help but like it. It's spring outside but the colors don't even compare to the reds and greens and golds of the tapestries and formal dress of the people working there.

Ambassador Xiu herself is dressed in heavy layers of silk, blue kingfishers stitched onto the right shoulder and sleeve, her dark hair in elaborate twists sitting high upon her head.

“Führer President,” she greets with mannerisms that befit an queen, “Professor Elric-Mustang. Master Alphonse.”

Alphonse giggles at being addressed so formally, but other than that he does not appear out of his depth, a mixture between his innate outgoing nature and the doubtlessly numerous occasions of having met other important people in the line of Roy's work.

“Edward,” Roy introduces, “This is Ambassador Xiu, aunt of his majesty, the Emperor of Xing.”

“One of many,” she adds as though it were an inside joke Ed doesn't quite get.

“Pleased to meet you,” Ed says awkwardly, “Or, er, meet you again?”

“Yes, the Führer President informed me of your unfortunate accident,” she says, “You are suffering from amnesia.”

“That's what my doctors tell me,” Ed shrugs, “And, y'know, the fact that I lost ten years in two hours of shuteye is kind of a big clue.”

There is a smile caught in the corner of her mouth and Ed is starting to wonder whether that is a Xingese thing or a politician thing because Mustang used to do that all the time. Roy doesn't, but then again, Ed hasn't really seen enough of him to judge that yet.

“Very well,” she says and makes an inviting gesture that trails her long sleeve over the floor, “Then we best do away with the pleasantries. Healer Zan Huan should be ready for you.”

She leads them down a long, wood-paneled corridor and immediately Al begins excitedly chatting with her, asking her this and that about the interior design, Xingese dialects, and Xing in general.

Ed uses the opportunity to sidle up closer to Roy.

“Hey,” he whispers, “I thought there were tensions between Xing and Drachma.”

Roy inclines his head, “Yes.”

“And that you had to play referee.”

“Yes.”

“So what did you have to promise to make her agree to this?”

“That,” Roy says, “Is a problem for a different day.”

And then Ambassador Xiu is already stopping in front of a door, beckoning them to step inside.

“This is Zan Huan's practice,” she explains, “I realize this is a rather delicate time for you, so I will leave you to it. I wish you all the best, Professor.” Then she levels Roy with a meaningful look, “I will be in touch, Führer President.”

“Of course,” Roy agrees gracefully and Ed wonders whether he is just imagining the sheen of sweat on the man's upper lip.

The healer's room is small but bright, crowded but tidy. There are shelves upon shelves lining the walls, books and jar and strange memorabilia, a song bird in a wooden cage by the window. Most of the book titles Ed cannot even read, but they still intrigue him. He glances to his side and sees Al's eyes shining with the same light.

The owner of the room is equally as fascinating. Whereas Xiu had been the kind of person whose age was difficult to judge, though Ed guessed her to be at about fifty years old, Zan Huan is clearly older. Her hair is silver, her skin parchment, and her eyes like dark shiny stones at the bottom of a pool.

Unlike Xiu, she speaks with a defined accent, calmly and deliberately choosing each word, even as she beckons Ed to sit on a kind of divan, bestowing him with a kind smile.  
“What ails you, child?” she asks, already tenderly putting her hands on him.

“Er. Amnesia?” Ed tries, skeptically blinking up at her.

“Ah, yes,” she frowns mildly, seeming to concentrate on her fingertips that she presses against his temples, “I'm sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks?”

“The hurt is very deep,” she tells him, “There are very many things that tried to be forgotten, and now they changed places. You sleep bad, yes?”

“I get nightmares sometimes, I guess?” he wonders, glancing towards Roy and Al for confirmation.  
“Usually when there is something that reminds him,” Roy points out, “It happens much less frequently now.”

“Still not good,” Zan Huan hums thoughtfully, “Dreams is the heart speaking. Should always be listened to.”

“That's not what I'm here for, though,” Ed says, feeling himself get impatient, “I just want my memories back.”

“All of them?”

“Wha- of course all of them.”

“Even bad ones?” Zan Huan asks, “Ones you painted over and pushed aside? Pain you didn't wish to see?”

“I-,” Ed begins and then breaks off, because what is she seeing in his brain, what does she think he had done?

“You want happiness, yes?” she ascertains, “You want husband and child and career.”

“Yes,” Ed insists, “Yes, I- of course I want that.”

“Good,” she tells him, pulling back and crouching down to pull a jar out of one of the many shelves, “Happiness is only happy when held next to grief. Everything is balanced. Everything has a price.”

“Sure,” Ed agrees, “Equivalent exchange.”

“Equivalent exchange,” Zan Huan says with her long bony finger held up, before she sticks it right into the jar, coating the tip with thick poultice within.

The poultice smells strongly of jasmine, though Ed suspects that's just to make it more palpable, and she uses it to paint what must be arrays onto Ed's temples, before grabbing a different jar that is full of long thin needles.

Ed immediately balks at the sight of them but clenches his teeth. He's had much worse. He can take this, even if _this_ is pointy metal things being stuck into his head.

The needles prick his skin, one by one, but he barely even feels it, just a mild pressure, and instead he tries to concentrate on the lines and circles of the array, tries to discern any obvious difference between alchemy and alkahestry.

The main one, of course, being that alchemy is shit at healing while it seems to be alkahestry's main purpose. Ed doesn't know much about it, or at least doesn't know much about it anymore, but he is willing to take a leap of faith here. If Roy was grasping at straws, then Ed would do his best to fucking doggy paddle his way out of this mire.

Zan Huan is humming quietly, while Roy, Ed and Al can only watch as she pulls out a piece of paper, dips a paintbrush into an inkwell and starts painting an array.

Fucking wild, Ed thinks. Alchemists always used chalk or pencil, to erase any mistakes. This lady sure was something else.

When she is done, she puts her utensils aside, patiently waiting for the ink to dry. She glances over the paper once more, nods to herself, and then presses her palm to the array with no further warning.

The energy slams into Ed like brain freeze after eating too much ice cream at once, and his body locks up, overwhelmed, focused on that one point of too much. Quickly, however, the sensation begins to spread, slowly morphing from intense cold to tingling heat, and barely ten seconds must have passed but he wants it to be over already.

Dark spots and red fire dance across Ed vision and he must have closed his eyes for a moment, for when he opens them again he isn't sure whether he had actually blacked out.

He turns his head and immediately cringes. His teeth and his jaw hurt, his skull feels like it is splintering into its molecules and he kind of wants to vomit.

He barely suppresses the instinct to flinch away when Zan Huan presses her fingers to his temples now, carefully examining him.

“There,” she says, quiet satisfaction, “All good now.”

All good, my ass, Ed thinks because he wants to die on the spot, just to make everything stop spinning.

His expression of utter agony must be pretty obvious, however, because a moment later Zan Huan is already pressing a vial with a clear fluid into his hand.

“Here,” she smiles, “Drink it all.”

“Thanks,” Ed manages to grunt, downing the whole thing in one go. He grimaces even more because it tastes worse than the stupid expensive whiskey Roy had gotten for his last birthday and-

He stills.

With his head still ringing and his mouth hanging open, he slowly turns to face Roy and Al.

“Are you- Do you-,” Roy tries feebly but then breaks off again as the two of them just stare at each other. It's Al who eventually breaks the spell.

“Daddy,” he hiccups and throws himself across Ed's lap. Automatically, Ed's hand comes up to run through the soft blonde hair. The hair that always gets tangled on the right side when Al goes to bed directly after a bath. The hair of which, when Gracia had cut it for the first time, she had set aside a single lock for Ed to keep as a memento. The hair Ed likes to bury his nose in and just breathe when work was particularly draining.

“Did it work?” Al asks, blinking up at him through damp eyes.

“I- Yes,” Ed says breathlessly, “I think it did.”

Everything still feels kind of muddled, the outlines of memories bleeding into each other, but even as he mulls them over in his head their edges grow sharper and more defined, the details of his life once more fleshed out in front of him.

It's too much at once, too much knowledge, and the feeling of it is too reminiscent to not remind him of what the Gate had once done to him, to not have him choke back the bile that threatens to rise in his throat.

There are the horrible things right there, the second transmutation and losing Al, Izumi's death, his kidnapping and his initial doubts regarding his engagement, and it's painful, but at the same time those memories are cushioned by all of the fondness and the bliss.

Roy snoring and and sleeping with a toddler Al on his chest. Walking in on Winry and Paninya making out in the pantry. Al asking whether they might adopt Maple. Gracia introducing Ed to the wonders of pie-making. Heated discussions with Russel about alchemy and snide comments traded with Evelyn. His students and his colleagues and his neighbors and his friends. His husband. His son.

Ed loves them. How could he have forgotten that?

“I'm sorry,” he bursts out, cannot help it, clutches his hands in Al's cardigan, “I'm so sorry, I'm-”

He doesn't get far, though. Because now Roy is there, too, stepping close and putting his arms around Ed in a tight embrace. Immediately, Ed's priorities change.

“Roy,” he warns, alarmed, “Roy, ouch. Roy, there are needles poking into my skull, I'm serious, let me go for a moment.”

He bats him away, instead waiting for Zan Huan to efficiently remove the needles. And Ed is grateful for what they had achieved, but the sight of them still makes him cringe.

“That is so cool!” Al pipes up, apparently already mostly recovered from everything that has happened, “Alkahestry is even better than normal alchemy!”

“Hey,” Ed grumbles, vaguely offended, though he can't really blame the kid for being so fascinated.

“I wanna be able to do that!” Al insists, “I mean, if father had just talked to Ambassador Xiu from the beginning, then-”

Another piece of knowledge slips into place and Ed cannot help but gape in sudden realization.

Emotions between Drachma and Xing were currently running high and it did not bode well for anyone involved in the matter. So far, Roy had managed to maintain a neutral position, neither estranging nor engaging any of the other parties. But for him to have called in this favor from the ambassador meant that Xing would be expecting a favor in return.

“Roy,” Ed breathes, “What were you thinking?”

Roy's face is chalk white, but there is determination glinting in his gaze.

“I know there will be consequences,” he admits, “I know it was irresponsible. I know that- that there are many who might not forgive me for this. But-” His voice shakes, breaks, “Just once. One thing, one risk. I deserve my mistakes, too, I deserve to fight for what I have and- and if this is my swansong, then- it was worth it.”

Essentially, Roy had put his führership on the line. He might be forced to step down because of this. He might have risked an actual war, just so Ed would regain his memories. He had pitched Amestris against their marriage, and their marriage had won.

Roy Mustang was a stupid fucking idiot and Ed should slap him for it, beat some sense into him, but he fucking knows what he would have done if their places had been reversed.

Love was always a thing of logic for you, Roy had told him just yesterday.

But it's not. Love makes Ed irrational and irritated, it makes him weak and strong and knocks him sideways off his feet. Half of the time, love drives him crazy, and it's the most brilliant feeling in the world.

Somewhat unsteadily, Ed gets up and stumbles over to Roy. Roy himself looks like he is expecting a lecture or a tantrum but, in all honesty, Ed is too tired for that. Too tired and too relieved.

So he simply leans his forehead against Roy's chest and closes his eyes.

“Thank you,” he says quietly and something silent shudders through Roy's poise.

“My pleasure,” he counters, “It would have been a pity if you had forgotten that recipe for chicken noodle soup.”

Ed thinks of his mishaps in the kitchen, of all of them catching the flu at the same time, of many cold evenings spent in front of the fire place, clutching steaming mugs in their hands and leaning into each other.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “I always liked that one.”

“What happens now?” Al asks curiously, tugging at Ed's hand.

“Now,” Roy replies with stilted humor, “I imagine I will become pen pals with the emperor of Xing.”

“You have been to Xing before,” Zan Huan knows, “His Majesty will welcome you.”

And the potential back-up of Amsteris' military troops, Ed thinks cynically.

“I want to go to Xing and learn alkahestry!” Al demands, “So I can save daddy next time.”

“Who says there's gonna be a next time?” Ed complains, “I'm not that prone to accidents.”

“Edward, you blew up your entire lab because of a malfunctioning bunsen burner,” Roy points out.

“Oh shit,” Ed's eyes widen, “My experiment.”

“That's what you are upset about?” Roy deadpans, “Really?”

“In Xing we say 'Be not afraid of growing slowly,” Zan Huan says wisely, “Be afraid of standing still.'”

Ed blinks, turning his head toward her.

“Are you calling me short?” he demands and Roy groans.

Ed bares his teeth in a cocky little grin. He's never felt larger than life, not truly. But once more he has proven that, as long as he has his friends and family by his side, he can take on any challenge and with only minor existential crises involved.

He doesn't feel whole, not always, not ever, but perfection was overrated anyway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I didn't deus ex machina this too hard. In any case, the repercussions of Roy's liaison with Xing will become relevant in future installments and so will Al's interest in alkahestry.  
> For information on what's coming next, check the main page of this series for summaries and titles, though this was the last really big story in this 'verse. For now we are taking a short break and in two weeks I'll be back with a oneshot called “Past Moments, Past Mistakes”.  
> (I can't believe y'all still reading this. This story has totally developed a life of its own. You guys really keep me going.)


End file.
